


A Red and Bloody Dawn

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Conflict, Self-Sacrifice, Suicide, Vampires, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-07 08:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14666901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: After the Psijic adviser to the College of Winterhold is attacked, Egil Ulfricsson rides to the Hall of the Vigilant to warn Keeper Carcette of impending danger from the Volkihar vampires. What he finds there will alter the course of his life for all time.Serana's happy to be released from her eons-long imprisonment. Pity her saviour is a self-righteous nobleman aligned with a group of vampire-hunting fanatics. They're still a better option than her prophecy-obsessed father...The two have to work together before the sun dies and the vampires of Clan Volkihar are unleashed on a divided Skyrim.





	1. Red Tide Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, classism, implied/referenced torture, war crimes, implied rape/non-con, criminal acts, religious persecution, emotional trauma and mentions of child abandonment, child abuse, child neglect and child death. Third in the Tales of the Aurelii series focusing on Egil.

 

_“Among the night's children, a dread lord will rise. In an age of strife, when dragons return to the realm of men, darkness will mingle with light and the night and day will be as one.”_

Arch-Curate Vyrthur, _To Spit in Auriel’s Eye_

It was unlike Bjarni to send an urgent summons for Egil. In the year or so since the defeat of the Thalmor Ancano, his brother had grown in stature and confidence, forging his own legend apart from those of their parents. Arch-Mage of the College, Thane of Winterhold and common-law husband to Brelyna Maryon of House Telvanni. All of these things were open defiance of their family’s expectations. That was Bjarni for you.

            Egil dismounted from his raw-boned grey gelding and handed the reins to Korir’s son Assur. They’d erected a stable between the inn and a gateless wall built from fire-scarred wood and cracked stone, the other side of the street holding a canopied stall where a brown-tabby Khajiit in soft green wool displayed exotic wares. Korir’s trade alliance with the Khajiit caravans was bearing some fruit for the impoverished Hold, lessening its dependence on Eastmarch’s goodwill. Father was resignedly philosophical about it while Mother visibly fumed whenever the subject came up.

            The village itself was looking a little less shabby, the cobblestone street swept clear of snow and inexpertly patched with rubble from the ruins. Steward Birna was wearing a new rabbit-fur cloak pinned with a bronze brooch as she talked to Onmund Sky-Bolt, the closest thing to a court wizard. Korir was still cagy about the College in general, though he had great trust for Bjarni and Onmund. “I’ve increased night patrols,” Birna said as Egil neared. “But I don’t know how much good they’ll do.”

            “Faralda will be taking day shift and J’zargo night shift with the patrols,” Onmund responded. “Whatever managed to swoop down and almost kill Quaranir had to be fast and powerful enough to get past the College wards, even if they’d been relaxed for the feast.”

            “Winged Daedra?” the Steward suggested.

            “That’s a possibility. The others, according to Urag, are either a Volkihar vampire or a dragon. Skyrim’s too cold for Valenwood blood bats or Morrowind cliff racers.”

            Birna winced. “I’ll see if we can scrounge together enough silver to protect our people.”

            “If you’re having trouble, bring some iron ore to us. Transmuted silver’s as good as natural and Bjarni’s gotten the knack of alloying it with steel.”

            “He’s becoming quite the wonder-smith,” Birna said. “I’ll talk to Thorgar over at Whistling Mine. Thanks, Onmund.”

            “Welcome. Watch yourself after dark.” Onmund turned to face Egil, his plain face grim with concern.

            “Quaranir was hurt?” Egil asked calmly. The Psijic was an ad hoc adviser to both Korir and Bjarni, probably a highly competent mage in his own right, and no easy target.

            “Yeah. Something big and winged almost killed him after the feast last night. We’re keeping it quiet but…” Onmund nodded in the direction of the College. “I’m guessing Bjarni sent for you because you’ve got connections to the Vigilants of Stendarr.”

            They walked past Birna’s old shop, now run by her brother Ranmir, and Kraldar’s cottage. “Why didn’t he contact them directly?”

            “Because Keeper Carcette’s been less than diplomatic with her opinions about the Dunmer religion,” Onmund answered bluntly. “We’re planning a Temple of All Gods and it’s going to include a shrine to the Dunmer’s Three Good Daedra and the Orcs’ Malacath. We have members of both races among the faculty and they deserve the right to freely worship too.”

            Bjarni’s interpretation of the Stormcloaks’ demand to freely worship as they wished was… generous. “What does Jarl Korir have to say on the matter?”

            “He’s not thrilled,” Onmund admitted. “But since we managed to talk Erandur into moving his shrine to Mara here, he can’t complain at the influx of northerners coming to be married for a fraction of the price in Solitude or Riften.”

            Egil grunted. He didn’t approve of Daedra worship for any number of reasons, though he could _just_ stomach veneration of Azura for diplomatic reasons. The Dunmer were a large part of Windhelm’s skilled labour force and if they all decided to return to Morrowind or go south to a more tolerant Cyrodiil. Only the most short-sighted Stormcloaks wanted such a thing.

            They crossed the bridge, the buffeting winds howling over the chasm between College and Winterhold, and came to the courtyard. There was a large splash of blood near the doors to the main building. Egil studied the shape of it and let his eyes trail to the west. “Claw marks on the western railing,” he said, nodding in that direction. “Whatever attacked Quaranir launched itself from there, probably waiting for an appropriate victim.”

            “That narrows it down,” Onmund said grimly. “It wasn’t a dragon.”

            “Dragons are dead,” Egil pointed out.

            “But they’ll come back at the end of the world. Everyone knows that.” Onmund led him into the Hall of Countenance and upstairs to a bedroom converted into an infirmary.

            Egil ignored the complex Altmer tapestries and heavy dark furniture, studying the mer tucked into the furs. Always lean, Quaranir was now haggard and hollow-cheeked, his bones stark against aged-parchment skin. His flesh was cold to the touch yet his body shuddered with fever. When Egil peeled back an eyelid, the saffron eye almost glowed. When he peeled back the bottom lip, the canines were pronounced.

            “Get Bjarni,” he told Onmund. “It’s better he hear it straight from me.”

            Soon enough, his brother arrived with Brelyna in tow. Bjarni had filled out a bit more, an already bulky frame now barrel-chested and broad-shouldered. His brown-black hair was longer and he still had that two-day stubble. Egil wished he’d either grow a beard or shave, none of that halfway business.

            “He was attacked by a Volkihar vampire,” Egil said without preamble. “Give him last rites and a knife to the heart before he rises. There’s no cure.”

            “That you know of,” Bjarni replied before yelling, “Phinis, get your arse in here!”

            A small, balding, fussy man who smelt of chemicals entered the bedroom. “I see you’ve deigned to ask my opinion, oh mightiest of Arch-Mages. How might this humble Conjuror assist you?”

            “A Volkihar vampire attacked Quaranir. Now we both know that no potion can cure a Volkihar’s bite. Is there anything else that can or should we just cut the poor bastard’s throat and cremate him?”

            Phinis nodded immediately. “There is a rite practiced by the Priests of Tu’whacca that can cure full-blown vampirism, even that of the Volkihar. Sadly, Quaranir will rise before we can get him to Morthal, because that’s where the nearest one is.”

            “Falion? I thought he left because of disagreements with Savos,” Bjarni replied.

            “Well, yes. Many of the arts of a Priest of Tu’whacca would be, ah, technically deemed necromancy of the worst sort. But Falion’s the only one I know who can cure vampirism in Skyrim,” Phinis said. “I know it involves a filled black soul gem. I’m guessing it’s swapping one soul for another in the eyes of Molag Bal.”

            “Do we have any in stock?” Bjarni asked. “I know we often pick up the damned things from the necromancers we’ve been putting down lately.”

            “Only empty ones.” Phinis sighed. “And unless this vampire pays another call, we won’t be able to ethically fill them.”

            “There is no ethical way to fill a black soul gem,” Egil said flatly and drew his knife. “I understand Quaranir’s your friend. So I’ll do what must be done.”

            Bjarni’s left hand gestured and Egil’s dagger was wrenched from his hand to clatter on the stone floor. “We’re not killing him just like that. Unless you care to explain to the Psijics why their friend died?”

            “The Psijics will understand.” Egil met his brother’s eyes. “He’s going to rise as a Volkihar vampire, Bjarni. Worst of the worst. The Vigilants have never been able to find their nest and eradicate it.”

            “Somewhere up near High Rock,” Phinis offered.

            “Why don’t we wait for Quaranir to wake up and make the decision himself?” Brelyna suggested. “I have an Alteration spell that enchant a cup for one day to produce endless amounts of liquid. If we have a cup of blood…”

            “We can sate his thirst and keep him sane,” Bjarni finished, smiling and nodding at her. “Good idea.”

            Egil gave an aggravated sigh. “Don’t let sentimentality get in the way of doing what’s necessary, Bjarni.”

            His brother’s eyes were grim. “This is to keep Quaranir alive until he can get to Morthal and speak to this Falion. If he wants to become a Volkihar vampire, I’ll kill him myself. But I’d like to at least try to save my friend, yeah?”

            Egil shook his head. “On your head be it, Bjarni. I’ve given you my advice and like always, you won’t take it. I honestly don’t know why I bother.”

            He turned away. “I need to alert Keeper Carcette to the renewed presence of Volkihar vampires on the coast. At least the Vigilants know what must be done.”

…

Orthjolf considered himself a simple man even after five thousand years as a lord of Clan Volkihar. Protect your home, your kindred and your power. It was a basic truth that too many forgot, so enthralled with the powers of the Vampire Lord form they became. Some even followed that filthy elf Vingalmo into the study of sorcery. Weren’t the powers of a Vampire Lord good enough for them? Filthy fucking milk drinkers should be purged for the good of the clan.

            He held up a hand as Fura Bloodmouth and Stalf approached. The other vampires on this mission, mostly lackeys of Vingalmo, were circling on the other side of the low thatched building. He’d given them the task of silencing any night-owl Vigilants who wandered outside. The ones sleeping or praying inside were oblivious to their impending doom. Still, they carried blessed maces and wielded potent Restoration magic. That was why Vingalmo’s sword-fodder would get the honour of first attack and first dying. Let them weaken Carcette and her followers enough for Orthjolf to claim the true prize.

            “Do you think we should thank them before they die?” Fura Bloodmouth asked in all sincerity. A simpler woman than Orthjolf, she cared little for court politics, a fact he could respect. She was a warrior who embraced her immortality for the opportunity to refine her technique and live in a better paradise than the endless hunt of the Circle werewolves or the tedious afterlife of the mortal Nords. Her allegiance would be to whoever sat in the throne.

            Stalf, on the other hand, was little better than sword-fodder. Blood cattle who proved strong enough to rise as a Volkihar vampire. A century or three might make him useful, but he’d need to survive that long first.

            “The Vigilants or Vingalmo’s little friends?” Orthjolf asked dryly.

            Fura sighed. “This is the greatest task we’ve ever been given by Lord Harkon and you’re bringing your politics into it? Just kill Vingalmo already. The bitching ruins my appetite.”

            “That damn goldskin’s convinced Harkon he’s useful. I’ll grant the bastard was handy when we went to take Valerica down,” Orthjolf replied. “Vingalmo’s got a bad habit of recruiting the younger members for their enthusiasm, not their intelligence. Let the new meat wear down the Vigilants while we find the useful ones.”

            “If we fail, I’m laying it at your feet when Harkon looks for blame,” Fura told him bluntly.

            “You do as you see fit. We won’t fail.”

            Just below them, someone cried out sharply in the night. Orthjolf sighed. “Sloppy, very sloppy. Let’s go retrieve Brother Addvald before some idiot kills him.”

            As one, they transformed and descended upon the Hall of the Vigilants. The end of the Tyranny of the Sun began this night.


	2. Red Light at Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death and corpse desecration.

 

_“The suffering the Daedra cause will not go unpunished.”_

The Vigilants of Stendarr

The Hall of the Vigilant was burning.

            Egil reined in his horse sharply, making the beast rear and cry out, and jumped from the saddle. Who would dare attack the Vigilants so blatantly? They were one of the mightier, more respected militant religious orders in Tamriel. It didn’t bode well for the future.

            He cast Frostbite at the flames in his way, clearing himself a path into the wreckage. The bodies of Vigilants lay everywhere, interspersed with those of horrid doglike creatures… and vampires. Even surprised, as he could tell by the remains of dinner on one table, the servants of Stendarr had died hard.

            Within the inner sanctum of the Hall, the altar had been desecrated by the mutilated corpse of Keeper Carcette. Egil’s fists clenched when he saw the glistening ribcage and twisted expression on her face. Carcette had died the hardest of them all.

            He took a deep shaky breath. He wasn’t a priest of Stendarr, only a devout worshipper, but someone had to give the dead Vigilants last rites. Even for a proven warrior who’d spent the last year hunting down bandits, this was carnage almost beyond imagination. What allowed the vampires to unite and attack in such force?

            _Volkihar,_ he thought grimly. _Who else?_

It put the attack on Quaranir into context. Psijics were noted for their ability to perceive the future.

            He was dragging the last of the Vigilants’ bodies into the middle of the building to burn when someone yelled, “By Stendarr! What happened here?”

            “Brother Tolan!” Egil raised his hand to the Vigilant who patrolled his native Eastmarch in search of Daedra worshippers. They’d met a couple times.

            “Egil,” the haggard old Nord greeted, voice shaky. “What happened here?”

            “Vampire attack. Probably Volkihar if the attack I came to report is anything to go by.” Egil could bless his mother for the distancing techniques she’d taught him. He wrapped his feelings in a warm wool blanket and stuffed it into a box at the back of his mind, focusing on the cold practicalities of the situation at hand. The full horror would strike him later, of course. His mother hadn’t shared how to manage that yet.

            “By the Nine,” Tolan said brokenly. “Isran was right.”

            “Isran?”

            Tolan’s lips twisted. “Ex-Vigilant. Thought we were too soft. Warned us the vampires would organise and attack us.”

            “He sounds like a practical man.” Egil sighed and returned to hauling bodies onto the makeshift pyre. “Help me with this and we’ll give them last rites.”

            It was a maimed rite, Tolan breaking down mid-prayer, but eventually they were laid to rest and the corpses burned. Then Egil salvaged all that could be saved from the Hall, which was mostly potions for disease and poison, and set fire to the ruins to make sure the vampires were truly dead.

            “You’re a cold man, Egil Ulfricsson,” Tolan said bitterly. “Isran would like you.”

            “Your friends are dead and this place is too tainted by death for another Hall to be raised,” Egil told him quietly. “I’m doing what I must.”

            When the Hall was nothing but ashes scattered on the cold winter wind, Egil handed Tolan his black bearskin cloak and had the Vigilant mount his gelding. “We’ll overnight in Dawnstar and then go to Winterhold. Perhaps news of this attack will convince Bjarni to put Quaranir out of his misery instead of letting him rise as a Volkihar.”

            “Forget Dawnstar,” Tolan said with a shudder. “We must go to the Rift, to Dayspring Canyon. Isran is there and he’s gathering forces under the name of the old Dawnguard.”

            “Then we’ll overnight in Whiterun instead,” Egil decided. “Come, Brother Tolan. Mourn your siblings on the move.”

…

“You there! The Dawnguard is looking for anyone willing to fight against the growing vampire menace. What do you say?”

            Egil’s mouth quirked humourlessly to the side as the old, broken-tusked Orc accosted them in Whiterun’s Plain District. “We were just making our way to Dayspring Canyon,” he told him, noting that the Orc’s leather-scaled armour was of great quality. Isran had some wealthy backers, it seemed. “I am Egil Ulfricsson and this is Brother Tolan of the Vigil of Stendarr.”

            “The vampires,” Tolan whispered. “The vampires killed all the Vigilants at the Hall.”

            The Orc said something that Egil knew meant ‘shit’. He knew because Bjarni learned it from the Orcs up at Narzulbur and insisted on teaching him the word. “I’ve got a horse at the stables. We need to tell Isran.”

            “One night won’t make a difference,” Egil said, eyeing the red bloody sun as it descended. “Might even be safer.”

            The Orc grimaced. “You’re right. I’m Durak.”

            “No stronghold name?” Egil asked in some surprise.

            “I was a Chief once. Vampires killed my wives and boys. I will give my death to Malacath by killing as many as I can before I go down.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s a reasonable question. Ulfricsson, eh? I’ve heard that name before.” Durak joined them as they walked deeper into Whiterun.

            “My father is the Jarl of Windhelm,” Egil told him.

            “You got a brother named Bjarni? He’s Blood-Kin. Good kid, I hear.”

            “I do,” Egil confirmed. “He’s now Arch-Mage of the College.”

            “Isn’t a Nord mage against your religion?” Durak asked dryly.

            Egil chose not to dignify that with an answer. They reached the Bannered Mare, which was full of rowdy Plainsfolk cheering on a couple men as they gulped down flagons of mead or beer. An older man with a gold arm-ring was cheering a plain-faced man in green while a balding man in an innkeeper’s apron was spitting curses at the pasty Imperial. “Come on, Gorran!” roared the ring-bearer. “The honour of Barley-Beard Farm depends on you!”

            Gorran was victorious, raising his empty flagon in the air to the appreciative roar of the crowd. The innkeeper glared at the Imperial and threw the contents of the half-empty flagon in his face. “Fucking idiot!” he spat. “You can consider the interest on your debt doubled.”

            Balgruuf’s brother Hrongar got between the innkeeper and the Imperial before punches could be thrown. “Don’t blame Mallus for the ill-advised bet,” he told him. “It’s not his fault that Gorran can drink three Companions under the table, Sabjorn.”

            Egil glanced at the crowd and yes, there were three Companions – the Hero-Twins and Skjor – who were three sheets in the wind and singing off-tune drinking songs. A hapless-looking Redguard wearing an Amulet of Arkay sat at the table, clearly wishing he was elsewhere.

            “I think the stables might be the better choice tonight,” he said with a sigh, turning for the door.

            They squeezed past a buxom Redguard woman with unusual blue-green eyes on the way out, earning an offended sniff. “You’re excused,” she said tartly.

            Egil didn’t bother to reply. Redguards always thought they were better than anyone else.

            The stables were quieter and Skulvar Sabre-Hilt happy to accept a handful of coins to let them sleep in the loft. Here, surrounded by the fresh scent of hay, Egil released his grip on his emotions as Tolan and Durak snored. Tears slowly trickled down his cheeks as his stomach twisted at the horrors of the day.

            By the dawn, he was ready to present the hard face that the world demanded of him once more. Nord warriors didn’t weep and the son of the Stormcloak and the Stormsword didn’t show weakness. He would be as strong and hard as Skyrim needed him to be.

…

Morthal was a benighted little village in a benighted part of Skyrim. Quaranir knocked on the door of the dilapidated cottage that Falion reportedly dwelled in. The filled black soul gem hung heavy in his golden hand. Bjarni had given it to him, no answers given, before he departed from Winterhold.

            The door opened to reveal a lean, sharp-featured Redguard in plain blue robes. “You must be Quaranir,” Falion said. “Phinis sent me a message to expect you.”

            “Kind of him,” Quaranir noted as he was ushered inside.

            The interior was brightly lit with both enchanting and alchemical equipment set up in different corners. A child’s bed was tucked to the side, a stuffed bear laid tenderly on the flat pillow, and the remains of a meal littered the long table. To the side was a small altar holding a brass statue of some unknown entity.

            “Tu’whacca,” Falion said, following Quaranir’s gaze. “I serve Him still despite what some would say.”

            Part of a Psijic’s education included learning of the various foreign deities worshipped outside Artaeum. “The Redguard god of death, yes?”

            “Yes. My task is to send people to the afterlife if it’s their time or bring them back if it isn’t.” Falion’s smile was grim. “Occasionally, that requires what you could call necromancy.”

            Quaranir offered the black soul gem with a shaky hand. “I am a Psijic and ordained Priest of Auri-El. I cannot be a vampire.”

            Falion closed Quaranir’s fingers over the gem. “Not here, not now. Later, when everyone’s asleep.”

            Several hours passed as a Redguard woman stopped by to collect the dirty dishes and drop off a fresh meal, Falion’s little ward Agni returned home from playing and was put to bed, and Quaranir listened to the Redguard’s quiet explanation of what was going to happen.

            “I won’t lie,” Falion said quietly. “You may need to earn Auri-El’s favour again. He’s not exactly the kind of god who understands these accidents can happen.”

            “You know so much of Auri-El?” Quaranir asked, nettled by the Redguard’s casualness.

            “I know enough. I’ve even heard that one Priest of Auri-El was turned into a vampire and grew so wrathful that he proclaimed a prophecy that a dread vampire lord would blacken the sun so that vampires could rule the world.”

            Quaranir shuddered. “ _To Spit in Auriel’s Eye_. One of the most blasphemous works ever written. I can understand why Auri-El turned His eye from the Falmer and let them die at the hands of the Nords after reading it.”

            “To damn an entire people for the sins of the one?” Falion asked with an arched eyebrow.

            “I can’t see any race of mer falling to the Nords so easily otherwise,” Quaranir explained.

            “The Nords had Dragon Priests,” Falion said grimly. “Most of the bastards could Shout – and the Thu’um is perhaps the most primal form of magic out there.”

            He stood up. “Let’s get this done. You’re certain you want to be cured?”

            “Of course.”

            Dawn was just touching the sky as they reached the ring of standing stones near Morthal. Falion positioned Quaranir in the middle of the ring before lifting the black soul gem to the sky. “I call upon Oblivion Realms, the home of those who are not our ancestors. Answer my plea! As in death there is new life, in Oblivion there is a beginning for that which has ended. I call forth that power! Accept the soul that we offer! As the sun ends the night, end the darkness of this soul, return life to the creature you see before you!”

            The sun crested the horizon and Quaranir screamed as its blood-red rays touched him. Light within, light without, his blood boiled. The pain eventually grew too much and he fell into unconsciousness.

            He awoke in Falion’s hut, wrapped in a blanket, with the Redguard woman Jonna gently trying to spoon-feed him salty fish broth. Quaranir licked it from his lips and felt it was the finest thing he’d ever tasted. “Welcome back,” she said gently. “How do you feel?”

            “Hollow,” Quaranir confessed.

            “You’ve been drinking blood these past few days, Falion told me. It’ll take a week before you’re eating solid food again.” She offered another spoonful of broth and Quaranir drank it, embarrassed he was in such a state as to need nursing.

            “You do this often?” he asked, licking his lips again. This fish broth was divine.

            “Often enough. There’s a coven of necromancers up the road and a nest of vampires nearby. Falion’s trying to find the bastards but until then, all he can do is tend to those who were harmed.” Jonna fed him another spoon. “Idgrod knows what’s going on but most of the villagers don’t.”

            By the end of the broth, Quaranir had learned about Morthal and its troubles. A house had burned down, killing a mother and child, and the husband moved into the house of the village beauty the next day. Drained bodies showing up in the swamp. Draugr wandering outside of their tombs. Even rumours that smoke in the general direction of the Hall of the Vigilant stained the sky.

            Falion returned later that day, expression grim. “Quaranir, I normally don’t ask for repayment of my services, but there’s something wrong in Morthal.”

            “The unseemly haste of Hroggar?” Quaranir asked.

            “Yes. Alva’s a vampire but even Idgrod wouldn’t believe me if I told her without proof. She’s got oracular abilities that are erratic at best and she relies too much on them. She would, however, trust the word of an outsider… Even an Altmer.”

            Quaranir nodded. Auri-El demanded that light be brought into the dark places and Morthal had a pall of darkness over it. “I will do what I can. But tomorrow, please.”

            “Tomorrow’s fine.” Falion smiled a little. “It’ll give me time to prepare a few tricks.”

            Quaranir was both intrigued and worried by the sort of tricks that a man who could cure vampirism would produce.


	3. A Dire Concern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Mentions of PTSD.

 

_“There's only one thing worth remembering. When it comes to vampires, if you're sloppy or careless, you're dead. And good people will die because of you. I've lasted this long because I don't take chances, I cover my tracks, and I keep my eyes open. If you're smart, you'll do the same.”_

Isran of the Dawnguard

“Isran will like you,” Durak noted as Egil lashed the semiconscious Tolan to a slow swaybacked mare he got for two hundred septims from Skulvar. They’d dosed the Vigilant to give him some peace because the man was traumatised from what happened at the Hall. The sedative would wear off by the time they reached Valtheim Towers, but until then Tolan was groggy and they needed to make all haste.

            Egil had already sent off a courier with word to his father. Ulfric would understand that the vampires were a more immediate threat than the Empire. His mother would probably try to recruit them but bloodsuckers couldn’t be trusted. Sometimes, the Stormsword was a bit too pragmatic. Some lines you didn’t cross.

            “I could like him,” Egil said as he mounted his grey gelding. “I wish he’d approached us. My father won’t be pleased to discover there’s a vampire conspiracy in his homeland.”

            Durak mounted his bay mare. “You’re certain it’s organised?”

            “Yes. It was a planned, calculated attack by someone familiar with ambushes, small unit tactics and a willingness to spend lives like a drunk does septims in a tavern. They sent a wave or two of lesser vampires to wipe out the sentries and soften up the Vigilants.” Egil cast a glance at Tolan but the Vigilant was still dozy. “Then the more skilled vampires went in and wiped out the dangerous ones like Keeper Carcette. Then they all settled to have their fun… or interrogate the Vigilants on what they know. Carcette was blood-eagled.”

            “Son of a bitch,” Durak growled as he nudged his horse into a trot. “How’d you figure all of that out?”

            “My father is Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. My mother is Sigdrifa Stormsword, the last Shieldmaiden of Talos. I was learning war and how to make it when most children are learning how to pick cabbages or catch fish.” Egil guided his horse along the road, Tolan’s tied to the back of his saddle. “Out of my own interest in justice, I studied investigatory techniques. The two combine surprisingly well to reconstruct battlefields.”

            “Huh,” Durak noted. “It makes an ugly amount of sense.”

            It was a long ride to the Rift. Tolan came to himself by the time they hit the volcanic tundra and was almost normal by the time they reached Darkwater Crossing, where they overnighted. Egil and Durak passed the time by exchanging everything they knew of vampire lore and battle. They agreed to disagree about the worship of Malacath. He knew when not to pick a fight.

            They bypassed Riften and continued to the corner of Skyrim where the Velothi Mountains met the Jeralls. At Dayspring Canyon, they dismounted and led their horses in, encountering a churl named Agmaer near the entrance. He followed them to the still-impressive Fort Dawnguard, where a bulky, broad-shouldered Redguard was snapping orders at a wiry, brown-haired Breton.

            “Isran and Celann,” Durak said. “Both former Vigilants.”

            Isran reminded Egil mostly of Sigdrifa Stormsword. Both had the same burning fervour in their eyes, a willingness to do what it took to achieve their goals, and a certainty that they were on the right side of history. He sent Agmaer to Celann with a few harsh words before turning his eyes to the other three. “Durak, good to see you. Who are your friends?”

            “You know me, Isran,” Tolan said bitterly. “Everyone’s dead at the Hall. Carcette, everyone but Addvald, and he’s missing!”

            “Everyone?” Isran’s eyes widened. ‘I warned Carcette.”

            “And you were right,” Tolan said bitterly. “Are you happy to hear it?”

            “No. I’m sorry.” Isran sighed and showed the human side for a brief moment. “If you need somewhere to stay, you’re welcome here. If not, there’s a group of Vigilants at Stendarr’s Beacon down the road.”

            Egil walked up to Isran and offered his hand. “Egil Ulfricsson. Good to meet you, Isran.”

            Isran clasped his hand briefly. “You’ve done good work in Eastmarch. Are you here to join?”

            “To lend my assistance. Anything I do will need to be worked around my obligations to Eastmarch.”

            “Understood. Bandits and necromancers don’t wait around politely for the end of the vampire crisis.” Isran led them into Fort Dawnguard. “We’re still cleaning the place up. Help yourself if you need anything.”

            “We will,” Egil agreed. “The situation’s worse, I think, than even you realise.”

            “Oh?” Isran’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m pretty prepared.”

            “It’s a conspiracy. Probably Volkihar. Whoever led the raid on the Hall knew their business. Another Volkihar attacked the Psijic adviser at the College of Winterhold. Sadly, my brother wanted to find a cure for his friend instead of taking my advice on the matter.” Egil sighed and shook his head. “He’s a sentimentalist.”

            “Psijics? They’re known for their knowledge of lore and divination.” Isran led them to the central chamber. “You’re certain it’s Volkihar?”

            “The vampire perched on the walls of the College and swooped on Quaranir after a public feast was finished and everyone else gone,” Egil replied bluntly. “The talons were too small for a dragon and it’s too cold for blood bats and cliff racers up there.”

            “So it is.” Isran nodded with a hint of approval. “You might be right. Which means this is bigger than we all realised.”

            “You should reach out to Gunmar and Sorine,” Durak advised grimly. “If it’s a conspiracy, we’ll need his beast taming skills and her technical prowess.”

            “I think I know what the vampires want from Brother Addvald,” Tolan said softly.

            “What?” Isran was visibly trying to gentle his brusqueness for Tolan’s sake.

            “We found something at Dimhollow Crypt in Hjaalmarch,” the Vigilant said. “It was an old cult site for the Daughters of Coldharbour.”

            “Daughters of Coldharbour?” Egil asked.

            “Vampires, always female, created by the hand of Molag Bal himself,” Isran grated. “It’s as bad as it sounds.”

            “Maybe the Volkihar blood is thinning,” Durak observed. “A couple Daughters would strengthen it once more.”

            Isran scowled. “Well, that isn’t happening. Durak, I hate to send you out on the road again, but I need you to investigate it.”

            “I’ll go with you,” Tolan promised. “I want to strike those bastards down.”

            “If you can spare a few days, I can head back up to Windhelm and round up my warband,” Egil told Isran. “You’d owe my parents one but it would be in Eastmarch’s favour to see these vampires put down.”

            “I’ll worry about possible debts later,” Isran said grimly. “Do it.”

            Egil nodded. Here was a man who understood pragmatism. “It will be done. Carcette taught me a lot. She deserves vengeance and justice.”

…

“So Alva was a vampire who nearly doomed us all,” Idgrod Ravencrone said with a sigh. “I’m sorry for misjudging you, Falion.”

            “It’s understandable,” the Redguard said gently. “I underestimate Morvath myself. If not for Quaranir…”

            “Ah yes, the Psijic.” The Jarl of Hjaalmarch met Quaranir’s eyes and he shivered at the witch-power in her gaze. Hjaalmarch was a boggy Hold that kept to itself, one of its borders touching the Reach, and Quaranir recognised that the Jarls’ bloodline shared the same source of power as did the Reachfolk shamans. “The Dawnguard martials its forces, grandson of Rynandor, but it will fall to you to strike the final blow. Seek the sword that brings the dawn and the bow which could blind the Eye of Auriel if permitted.”

            “Dawnbreaker is a Daedric artefact!” he yelped. How did she know that he’d found a Beacon of Meridia in the vampire’s lair?

            “Meridia is an old god, boy, and she is the enemy of the god who would enslave us all,” Idgrod said dryly. “In this case, ‘the enemy of my enemy’…”

            “Is my ally of opportunity,” Quaranir finished reluctantly. The Psijics disdained the Daedric Princes, it was true, but short term alliances were permitted.

            “Precisely.” Idgrod’s smile was thin. “Try to remember that when you’re dealing with the bear’s cub. Not your friend, the other one.”

            Of course Bjarni’s little brother would get involved in this. Quaranir had met Egil once and once was more than enough. “I’ll try.”

            Idgrod’s laugh said volumes.

           


	4. Break of Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Some head-canon for the relationship between Meridia and Auri-El.

_“I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing.”_

Ulfric Stormcloak

Egil closed his eyes as his father mulled over the information presented to him. Even the twenty men-at-arms permitted a member of the Jarl’s family as honour-guard would strip a tenth of Eastmarch’s standing militia. But if the Volkihar vampires were gathering to strike at Skyrim, the Stormcloaks needed to act quickly. They couldn’t take the chance that the vampires would be content to drain the Imperial-aligned Holds before attacking the east.

            “If this were anyone else, I would doubt them,” Ulfric finally said. “But it is you. The most conscientious and intelligent of my sons. Any vampire attack organised enough to wipe out the Vigilants of Stendarr…”

            “There’s a second chapter at Stendarr’s Beacon,” Egil said quietly. “But… as mighty as the Vigilants are, they’re disorganised without Carcette. I suspect Isran will incorporate them into the Dawnguard or let them hang in the wind with a ‘I told you so’. He reminds me a lot of Mother.”

            “From what you’ve said, I certainly approve of the man,” Sigdrifa said from her seat by the Throne of Ysgramor. “The problem isn’t so much a lack of desire to support the Dawnguard. It’s the lack of men to spare.”

            “So far, the Dawnguard consists of Isran, a Breton ex-Vigilant named Celann, a former Orcish chief named Durak and a churl named Agmaer,” Egil pointed out. “Even ten men-at-arms would be useful.”

            “You may take a huscarl – it’s high time you had one – and enough coins to hire a couple sellswords,” Sigdrifa said. “It’s the best we can manage, Egil.”

            “If the vampires cause trouble in Eastmarch, the militia will certainly assist the Dawnguard in quelling them,” Ulfric added.

            “It would be no bad idea to alert the Companions,” Galmar rumbled on the other side of the Throne. “Have you spoken to Bjarni about this?”

            Egil frowned. “He won’t listen to me. He won’t listen to anyone.”

            “He’s not an idiot,” Sigdrifa said with real reluctance in her voice. “He’s a dissolute little mongrel, but he’s not an idiot.”

            “I wasn’t saying he was. But he thinks he knows best and Daedra take everyone else.” Egil sighed and threw his last card in. “I have to work with the Dawnguard directly. I don’t think Isran has political aspirations but once word gets out there’s a vampire conspiracy, the Legion will step in. We need to be the first lending aid to show the rest of Skyrim that we don’t need the Empire to protect us.”

            “I was wondering when you’d get around to that,” Ulfric noted with a sigh. “Sadly, you’re right. That’s why I’m sending you out with a huscarl.”

            “Ralof?” Sigdrifa suggested.

            Ulfric smiled. “He’s certainly worthy. But no. I need him as my agent. I was thinking Calder.”

            “No, I was planning to replace Hjorda with him. Perhaps Sjofn or Helga Hard-Heart?” Sigdrifa asked.

            “Yrsarald?” Galmar said.

            “Hmm… Yes, Yrsarald,” Ulfric decided. “He could use some experience in the field and since he’s your chosen successor, Galmar, he will serve Egil as you have me should the worst happen.”

            Egil bowed slightly. “I’m honoured you trust me with a huscarl, Father.”

            “You’ve done much for the cause over the past year and proven yourself worthy,” Ulfric said simply. “You will my heir should I fall.”

            “Bjarni’s removed himself from the succession by becoming Arch-Mage,” Sigdrifa explained.

            “That’s the official story. Unofficially…” Ulfric sighed with genuine regret. “I can forgive many things. But his relationship with that Dunmer witch isn’t one of them.”

            “Brelyna is a mage, not a witch,” Egil corrected. “A witch is usually a hedge-trained Daedra worshipper. Brelyna, for all her faults, has had an excellent formal education.”

            “Pedantic little shit, isn’t he?” Galmar drawled.

            Ulfric gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “He is.”

            “It’s irrelevant. Bjarni’s engaged in a sinful relationship that flies in the face of everything Nords hold dear,” Sigdrifa said harshly. “Until and if he comports himself in an appropriate manner for a worshipper of Talos, he will be effectively disowned.”

            Egil decided not to point out that sleeping with a Dunmer was _quite_ in character for Talos, let alone one of His worshippers. Sigdrifa believed what she believed and pointing out the logical inconsistencies in said belief wasn’t worth the battle. “So I have permission to assist the Dawnguard?”

            “Didn’t we just say that?” Sigdrifa said. “I just hope Isran understands he will owe us.”

            “Even he doesn’t, you’ll remind him every chance you get,” Galmar said dryly, earning a filthy glare from the Stormsword.

            Egil bowed and excused himself. Some battles weren’t worth fighting.

…

“I have the strongest belief that Dimhollow Crypt is the location of Serana’s grave,” Orthjolf announced, staring at the broad back of Harkon as they stood overlooking the ruined gardens that were once Valerica’s pride and joy. The red moon hung low and full on the eastern horizon while the silver moon was a nail-paring crescent over Solitude. “We kept Addvald alive just in case he was deceiving us, but the circumstantial evidence is good.”

            Harkon nodded. “I suspect you’re right, old friend.”

            “Then do I have permission to secure the Crypt and start investigating?”

            “No. I will be handing the task to Lokil. He and Serana were childhood friends.”

            Orthjolf bowed his head in acknowledgment of Harkon’s decision even as he internally seethed. “Understood, my lord.”

            “So formal!” Harkon turned around and smiled toothily down at the slightly shorter Nord. “You aren’t happy.”

            “I understand the reasoning behind your decision. Valerica poisoned Serana against you and your cause, my lord. An old friend will, Molag Bal be willing, persuade her otherwise.” Orthjolf smiled crookedly. “I’m still disappointed at the loss of glory, my lord, but I understand.”

            “I understand, old friend. But as you have ever been my right hand, Valerica likely tainted you in my daughter’s eyes.” Harkon’s smile sharpened. “That’s why I don’t send Vingalmo, for he is my left hand.”

            “That’s something, I suppose,” Orthjolf conceded.

            “See? I’m not some fickle lordling playing with his courtiers for base reasons.” Harkon stared balefully to the east, where the sun would rise fat and red. “We will end the Tyranny of the Sun and rule as we should have from the beginning. I am tired of these bone shadows and bloody dregs, Orthjolf.”

            “It’s tedious to skulk and hide. Unworthy of true Nord warriors,” Orthjolf agreed.

            “Which city would you like to be Jarl of when I am the rightful High King of Skyrim?” Harkon asked, glancing at him.

            “I’ve always been partial to Whiterun, if that isn’t too greedy of me,” Orthjolf admitted.

            “Hmm, Fura has already asked me. She wants to prove something to the Companions.”

            “Give her Jorrvaskr, my lord. She’s always been easy to please.”

            Harkon laughed. “That she has, that she has!”

            His laughter died. “When I find Valerica, her end will consume a thousand years and her blackened soul be captured and mounted on my crown.”

            “We’ve searched every inch of Skyrim. I’m thinking she’s sought refuge on another plane.”

            “Yes. She was always on good terms with the Ideal Masters, Namira and Herma-Mora.” Harkon sighed heavily. “I just want to give my people the world, Orthjolf. Does that make me a monster?”

            “It makes you a true Nord. I long only to protect my people and my home.” Orthjolf shrugged. “I’m a simple man.”

            “As am I, old friend, as am I.” Harkon looked towards the east once more. “And when the sun is darkened, we will have achieved our goals. What then?”

            “Once we have Skyrim, we can conquer the rest of Tamriel. Molag Bal will surely be proud of us then.”

            “Perhaps. He’s not an easy god to please.”

            “But it’s worth the effort.”

…

If Meridia were a mortal, she’d be a High Kinlady from the highest echelons of Altmer society. She certainly had the arrogance and self-righteousness down pat. Quaranir leaned against the statue, trying to quell the nausea after being lifted in the air like a star and being instructed by the imperious Daedric Prince. A necromancer defiling the very shrine of Meridia. Quaranir had to give the man ten points for audacity.

            Numerous corpses littered the halls of Meridia’s shrine, their tortured wraiths wandering aimlessly until Quaranir came into view. As suited a Psijic, he was a master of Restoration, his various sun-fire and turn undead spells dispatching the tormented souls to their rest. He guided the beacon’s light through the various doors and ignored the offerings laid out where some cruder adventurer would plunder. Robbing from Meridia wasn’t a good way to start their temporary alliance.

            Malkoran was made of sterner stuff. The man reeked of Molag Bal’s influence and knew enough Destruction magic to tax Quaranir’s mastery of Wards. The Psijic was given cause to bless Bjarni’s insistence on morning calisthenics for all members of the College as he ducked and weaved, avoiding fireballs and responding with icy spears. Of course, he turned out to be a powerful shade. Why should this be easy for Quaranir?

            But like all men, Malkoran fell before the might of a mer, and Quaranir was able to approach the tarnished hilt of Dawnbreaker. Once his hand closed on it, light dazzled his eyes and he wound up looking down upon Skyrim from on high once more.

            “So, it is finished,” Meridia said proudly. “Not a moment too soon. Molag Bal’s minions stir to the northwest and seek that which is hidden.”

            “Auri-El’s Bow,” Quaranir breathed.

            “Yes.” Meridia’s voice was grim. “My father’s bow will respond to anyone but it responds best to His worshippers. Get to it before the fallen priest does. Save my father from being blinded.”

            “Fallen priest?” Quaranir asked.

            But Meridia said no more and instead returned him to the base of her shrine.

            Quaranir sighed and tied Dawnbreaker to his sash. It appeared he needed to consult Urag.


	5. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Mentions of torture, rape/non-con and imprisonment. Playing around with Awakening because of Egil’s charming personality and Serana’s refusal to deal with his bullshit.

 

_“Honour doesn’t forbid clever tactics.”_

Ralof Storm-Hammer

“Well, this is depressing.”

            Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced appeared to have taken a leaf out of Bjarni’s book and decided to be a smartarse every few minutes. Of course Dimhollow Crypt was depressing, it was a former site of Molag Bal worship!

            “Pity the Vigilants died on us,” complained a female voice. “Has Lokil got anywhere with that Addvald?”

            Another voice, this one male, snorted. “He’s tried everything. And I mean _everything_. It’s a pity we can’t turn Addvald. He’d be fun to play with.”

            Before Egil could get Tolan to wait a few more seconds, the Vigilant of Stendarr screamed and ran into the crypt proper, warhammer held high. Egil sighed and drew his sword, Yrsarald and Durak following suit with their weapons.

            Tolan managed to kill one vampire and Durak’s crossbow bolt turned another to ash. Then a Dunmer vampire transformed into a grotesque bat-winged creature and everything went downhill from there. The only reason Egil, Yrsarald and Durak were standing at the end of it was because of Tolan’s berserk rage.

            Egil closed the dead Vigilant’s eyes with a sigh. “Well, we know the Volkihar are here.”

            “Are you two averse to some stealth here?” Durak asked. “Vampires fight dirty. So we have to if we want to survive.”

            “Fine by me,” Egil said after a nod from Yrsarald. “As my weapons teacher said, ‘honour doesn’t forbid clever tactics’.”

            “Good.” Durak smiled grimly. “Let’s make these bastards pay.”

            Vampires, animated skeletons, a few draugr, some of those hellish hounds… Egil began to appreciate the utility of Durak’s crossbow and resolved to get some of Eastmarch’s militia outfitted with them. One good quarrel through the heart of a Legate and an Imperial battleline would shatter like glass. They picked up injuries but nothing that impeded their ability to fight.

            They eventually cornered Lokil and some other vampire in a chamber that glowed with black-purple flame. “I’ll… tell… you… nothing!” a weak voice spat. “Nothing!”

            “I believe you,” Lokil said before freezing the Vigilant to death. “We have what we need anyway.”

            Durak cocked his crossbow, sighted and fired.

            Egil didn’t know if Lokil had what he needed, because what he got was a quarrel between the eyes. By the time the female vampire was reacting, Durak had cocked the crossbow again. By the time she came running to the entrance, she sprouted a quarrel to the chest and landed in a facedown slide.

            “I want me one of those,” Yrsarald said, impressed.

            “Me too,” Egil agreed. “Me too.”

            It appeared that the chamber contained an elaborate lock that could only be opened by the purple-black fire filling several rings. Egil and Durak moved the stone braziers around until a small pedestal opened. When Yrsarald pressed the button, a spike punctured his hand and the entire puzzle dropped into a set of stairs, a stone sarcophagus rising from below.

            Egil called Turn Lesser Undead to his hand and slid open the lid.

            “Ugh…” A slender, black-haired Nord woman with alabaster-white skin and a golden scroll-case lashed to her back fell out of the sarcophagus.

            “Stay right there, undead!” Egil ordered. “Or my Orcish friend fills you with crossbow bolts!”

            Her golden eyes opened. “Lovely… Fucking vampire hunters.”

            “We should kill her now,” Durak advised.

            “Maybe we could find out why she was in there first?” Yrsarald suggested.

            The vampire used the stone sarcophagus to pull herself to her feet. “Charming friends you have here,” she said to Egil in a low, husky voice.

            “Not as charming as the ones who were trying to awake you,” Egil said flatly. “You have five seconds to start talking.”

            “I’m already talking, you March-born moron!” she shot back. “I knew Old Holders were idiots but you’d think a few hundred years would have given them a few more brains!”

            “My father is the Jarl of Windhelm!”

            “Really? Did your mother forget to spit that night? It certainly explains your manners.”

            Egil’s jaw dropped at the implications of her insult and Yrsarald choked down what was audibly a laugh.

            “You start by telling us why you were entombed,” Durak said as Egil tried to collect himself. He honestly didn’t need that image of his mother. No one did.

            “Put down the crossbow and I’ll talk,” she countered.

            “Do it, Durak,” Yrsarald counselled, still smirking.

            Grumbling, the Orc lowered his crossbow by an inch.

            “Thanks so kindly,” the vampire said dryly. “My name is Serana. I was… sealed away because of a very dangerous prophecy. One vampire hunters would want to prevent.”

            Egil squinted his eyes at the golden scroll-case. He’d read descriptions of similar cases. “Is that…?”

            “An Elder Scroll? Yeah.” Serana sighed and closed her eyes. “You can try to kill me. That’ll just give my father an excuse to try and make another Daughter of Coldharbour for his purposes. Or you can work with me. No sane vampire wants what my father is trying to bring about.”

            “I’m not sure vampires qualify as sane,” Egil retorted. “What kind of woman would willingly become a Daughter of Coldharbour?”

            “One who was raised to believe it was her destiny!” Serana spat. “It was degrading, okay? But my father told me it was my duty so we could all live forever.”

            Egil stepped back in the face of her outrage. He knew about family expectations. “Who is your father?”

            “Harkon of Clan Volkihar.” Serana wiped bloody tears from her eyes. “He wants to destroy us all and he can’t even see why he’s wrong. If he achieves his goal, you mortals will kill us all.”

            “After what happened to the Vigilants of Stendarr, I’m minded to kill you all anyway,” Egil said flatly. “Vampires and any Daedric-born creature are filth.”

            “What’s a Vigilant of Stendarr?”

            “They serve the Divine of merciful forbearance and righteous might. Their duty is to destroy creatures like you.” Egil called Turn Lesser Undead to his hand, golden light gathering in his palm. “Your father’s people murdered my friends and mentors.”

            “And so you’ll kill me?” Serana asked. “Don’t you want to know what my father wants to do?”

            “I’ll kill you _and_ him-“

            A flurry of bats filled Egil’s vision and when it was clear, Serana was gone.

            “Fuck!” he swore.

…

Serana tugged the hood of her leather cape against the grey afternoon light. She’d seen Lokil’s body just past the young nobleman with the Kreathling looks and Marcher’s accent. Her father had found her at last… and sadly, the vampire hunters were the fanatical kind looking to stamp out anything that wasn’t mortal, even if they were willing to work with them.

            She’d reformed somewhere on the border with Whiterun, the endless tundra stretching as far as the eye could see, the dim outline of Monahven with its ancient monastery visible on the horizon. It was good to know the Mother of Winds still stood hundreds of years later.

            She looked over her shoulder towards the west. Harkon would know she’d risen and send harriers after her. Maybe his pet dogs Orthjolf and Vingalmo. If only she knew where her mother was.

            She found a cobblestoned road and followed it to some prosperous farms. The ash-elf at the first one glared at her so she kept on moving. Fire was not her friend. At the second one, a buxom Kreathling woman with similar blue-green eyes to the lout she’d left behind at Dimhollow was wheeling a handcart full of ale barrels towards Whiterun, which had grown in size. “Excuse me,” Serana said, trying to stave off her thirst. She could find someone more suitable to dine on, like a necromancer or a bandit. “I got lost on the tundra. Do you know where Bromjunaar is?”

            “Bromjunaar? Name’s familiar. Dragonish, right?” the alewife asked.

            “Yes. I have some friends over that way.” Serana smiled thinly, making sure her fangs weren’t visible. “They’re mages.”

            “Oh! You mean Labyrinthian, Shalidor’s place of magic? You missed your friends by a long shot. I’d say they’re up at the College of Winterhold,” the alewife replied. Then her eyes narrowed. “You’re not Synod, are you?”

            “I have no idea what the Synod is,” Serana admitted wryly. “I’m… self-taught.”

            “Ah, hedge-mage. Well, it’s said Arch-Mage Bjarni takes all types these days.” The alewife nodded towards the north. “Watch for bandits. The Old Holds are rotten with them.”

            “The Old Holds are just rotten,” Serana said dryly, earning a laugh from the alewife.

            “You’ll get no disagreement from me.” The alewife picked up her handcart. “I better get this over to Whiterun. Wouldn’t want Jorrvaskr to run dry.”

            “No, we don’t.” Serana smiled a little at her. “Thanks for your help.”

            “Thanks for the laugh. It’s a gloomy day.” The alewife nodded and went on her way.

            Serana waited until nightfall in the shelter of a pine tree before taking to the skies in Vampire Lord form. She swooped down and drained a necromancer dry at the Ritual Stone. She then touched it, watching sky-blue light spear into the stars. It could be useful.

            By midnight, she’d reached Winterhold. The College was covered with a shimmering dome of light and the soldiers who patrolled the street of a much-diminished village carried silver-sheened swords. She didn’t recall that chasm or the ice-wall either. What happened here?

            Serana landed and assumed human form. Her keen hearing detected conversation about a vampire attack on a Psijic monk. Had her father gone completely mad? The elven sages were subtle and not above a little vengeance at times.

            Just after dawn, she walked towards the village. It was small but neat, a cat-woman selling things Serana had never seen. She wandered over, enchanted by the swathes of fabric and small stone bottles, delicate jewellery and small silk bags of only Kyne knew what.

            “Khajiit has wares if you have the coin,” the brown-tabby woman purred.

            “Do you barter?” Serana asked. She’d found a few small things on the necromancer.

            “It depends. Half-coin value unless you are associated with the College.”

            “I’m hoping to join,” Serana said honestly. It was as good a plan as any. Maybe she could even persuade the College to support her against the vampire hunters _and_ her father.

            “Come back. Then it is full coin value,” the Khajiit advised. “If anyone pleases the eye, Khajiit will set it aside for you.”

            Serana touched a fold of some soft wool. “It’s like silk!”

            “That is why we call it ‘silk-wool’,” the cat-woman said dryly. “That is wool from an alpaca-Rifter mountain goat mix. Not as soft as pure alpaca, but better for the cold and snow of Skyrim.”

            It was plenty soft enough for Serana. “Keep, oh, a cloak’s worth of the deep purple, please,” she said. “If I’m allowed into the College, I can trade a few things for it, maybe buy some perfume or jewellery. If not, I’ll still buy it.”

            “Khajiit will do so. Good luck.”

            Serana walked down the street, earning a few glances from the inhabitants. “College of Whispers, I’d say,” said one man in a mage’s robe to a woman wrapped in rabbit fur. “She’s got that Conjurer feel to her.”

            She was met at the gates to the bridge across the chasm by an Altmer woman. “What brings you to the College?” she asked in a low sweet voice.

            “I’m Serana and I’m hoping to join,” she said.

            The gatekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “Are you a vampire?” she asked bluntly.

            “I… Yes. And I don’t know why the Psijic monk was attacked. Whoever did it was an idiot who will get what they deserve.” Pity it was daylight, because Serana couldn’t take Vampire Lord form if things got violent.

            “Come with me,” the gatekeeper said. “We have an open door policy at the College and I think the Arch-Mage will want to speak to you.”

            The Arch-Mage turned out to be almost the spitting image of the rude lout back at Dimhollow. He was taller, bulkier, more hardened and his hair had chestnut streaks. He carried a stalhrim axe and wore chainmail like it was Khajiit silk-wool. “So,” he rumbled in a deep baritone after shaking her hand. “This time the vampire’s polite enough to knock instead of nearly drain my friend dry.”

            “Please hear me out,” Serana said softly. “I tried to talk some sense into your kinsman, the one who had friends in these Vigilants of Stendarr. He tried to kill me because he saw the vampire, not the woman who is trying to stop a very dangerous prophecy coming true.”

            “ _To Spit in Auri-El’s Eye_?” the Arch-Mage asked. “Written by a renegade Falmer priest of Auriel?”

            “Yes!” She looked at him. “Please believe me. No sane vampire wants that prophecy fulfilled. Humanity will kill us all.”

            “If the rumours I’ve heard from the south are true, the Dawnguard’s already getting started,” the Arch-Mage said dryly.

            “My father’s people killed some Vigilants of Stendarr, whoever they are. An Orc with a crossbow, a brown-haired Nord in bearskins and a man who looks like you that claims to be the son of the Jarl of Windhelm found me in my tomb and accidentally released me. I tried to tell them but…”

            “But given that Egil is a devout worshipper of Stendarr, your father killed a good many of his friends, and he’s inclined to act on what he considers right instead of listening meant you had to flee,” Bjarni finished.

            Serana nodded. Thank the gods, a reasonable person! She could only assume she was being so honest out of relief that someone was listening to her. “Yes!”

            Bjarni smiled thinly. “You’re either a better liar than Sanguine trying to sweet-talk Mephala or you’re telling the truth. Given the Charm spell I put on you, I’d say it’s the latter.”

            Her jaw dropped. She didn’t even hear or see the spell being cast.

            “I strongly suggest you be as forthcoming with the rest of the faculty,” Bjarni continued. “Quaranir’s already inclined to kill first without asking questions. He was the monk who was attacked and he had to seek out a cure. Now Auriel isn’t talking to him and it’s got him in a state.”

            Serana blinked. “A cure?”

            “For vampirism. Involves a rite conducted by a Priest of Tu’whacca with giving Molag Bal a filled black soul gem in return for the freedom of the vampire. Works even on Volkihar vampires.”

            Stendarr? Tu’whacca? Had new gods arisen while she was asleep? “I… didn’t enjoy becoming a vampire but… I’m used to it.”

            “If you want to stay here, you’ll have to seek out a cure. We can cope with a vampire on the short term, but the long term requires a cure. Vampires go to Coldharbour and I hear it’s not a pleasant place to be.”

            “Understatement of the century,” Serana said flatly. “I’ll… consider the cure. But until my father’s stopped, you might need the vampire.”

            “I understand. No one outside of senior faculty will know unless you do something stupid,” Bjarni promised. “I’m not putting my College on the line for you.”

            “I understand,” she said, weak with relief. This was more than she expected. “What about the Dawnguard?”

            “I’ll assist them. If this Isran expects me to slay you, he better have proof you’re a danger.” Bjarni sighed. “You didn’t hurt Egil, did you?”

            “No. Turned into a swarm of bats and flew away,” she admitted.

            “Thank the Nine. He’s a bit of a self-righteous wanker but he’s my brother.”

            “My commiserations,” Serana said dryly. “He’s _such_ a charming person to know.”

            “A vampire with a sense of humour. No wonder he tried to kill you at first sight.” Bjarni shook his head. “Come on. We’ll talk to Urag and Quaranir about what they know of this prophecy.”

            Serana followed him. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all.


	6. Finding Leads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“You mean to tell me there’s a vampire with an Elder Scroll you let get away?”

            Egil took a deep breath and weathered Isran’s disgusted tirade before replying. “We know her name’s Serana and her father is Harkon. Probably Harkon the Bloody from the First Age. Jarl of Solitude and a right piece of work.”

            “Shit. This is worse than we feared.” Isran sighed. “We will need Sorine and Gunmar.”

            “I’ve heard Gunmar’s in Eastmarch,” Durak rumbled. “But with Sorine’s interest in Dwemer mechanics, she could be anywhere in Skyrim.”

            “Uh…” Agmaer held his hand up tentatively. “I know a galdur that can find lost goats. Maybe it can work on people?”

            “Clairvoyance,” Egil said with a nod. “It’s worth a shot, Isran. Unless you want to bring in a mage?”

            “We might want a mage eventually. But now, I want to stick to those I know. Agmaer, use this ‘galdur’ of yours to find Gunmar. Big brute of a Nord from the Reach. If it works, I’ll send you after Sorine.” Isran sighed and stroked his bearded chin. “Egil, go with him. You’ve got certain privileges in Eastmarch that might come in handy.”

            “I’ve heard of Gunmar myself,” Egil admitted. “He makes a living as a beast tamer and occasional hunter.”

            “Yes. He had an idea for an armoured troll that I found interesting, but impractical at the time.” Isran smiled thinly. “Now we have Fort Dawnguard to hold them.”

            Tamed armoured trolls? Egil could think of a few uses himself. “He operates between Darkwater Crossing and Ivarstead. That should help Agmaer focus his galdur.”

            “I hope so,” Agmaer said nervously. “I’ve never looked for a person before.”

            It took Agmaer a few false starts to use the galdur as he kept on saying ‘goat’ instead of ‘Gunmar’. Egil and Yrsarald used the time to saddle their horses, restock from Fort Dawnguard’s supplies, and hone their weapons. But the churl finally got it and after mounting him on the spavined mare that Tolan used to ride, they set off.

            Over the two-day trip from Fort Dawnguard to Ivarstead, Egil learned more about Agmaer’s family than he ever wanted to know. Having Ralof as his arms master meant he wasn’t as ignorant of life for a churl as most nobles, but Agmaer babbled about everything and anything from his younger sister’s colicky newborn to the predatory behaviour of wolves in the foothills of the Jeralls. Egil settled for making vaguely interested grunts and watching the road ahead for any dangers.

            They found Gunmar in front of Honeystrand Cave, a noted local source of honey, bandaging a wound next to the carcass of a dead bear. “If you’re looking for me, you’ll have to be giving me a minute,” the brutish auburn-haired man called out in his thick Reach brogue. “There’s two more winter-starved bears in the cave. Something’s unsettled them and they need to be put down.”

            Yrsarald dismounted, cocking his crossbow. The man had taken to the Dawnguard weapon like a duck to water. “Leave it to us. The Dawnguard needs you.”

            “The Dawnguard?” Gunmar asked. “Isran pull his head from his arse at long last?”

            “We believe there’s a vampire conspiracy,” Egil said grimly as he dismounted. “We’re also searching for Sorine.”

            “It must be bad if that paranoid shit is looking for her too,” Gunmar observed dryly. “Next thing we’ll hear it’ll be Florentius and Irkand.”

            Egil didn’t know who Florentius was but the name Irkand was vaguely familiar. Some kind of assassin, maybe? He supposed one had to fight evil with evil-seeming acts. “He didn’t mention them.”

            “I bet not. Florentius is… either batshit insane or genuinely touched by Arkay. He and Isran butted heads more than once before he left. Irkand is an ex-Blade and a member of Arkay’s Knights of the Circle. It’s said there isn’t a thing on Tamriel that he hasn’t killed.” Gunmar shrugged. “Be careful with the bears, lads. I think they’re rabid.”

            It wasn’t the first bear hunt Egil had been on and probably wouldn’t be the last. Yrsarald’s crossbow made short work of the bigger bear but woke up the smaller one. That necessitated the huscarl playing target as Egil attacked from behind, his steel sword hamstringing the beast and Yrsarald’s battleaxe decapitating it. The pelts were patchy and mangy, not worth salvaging, and they couldn’t eat rabid bear meat.

            When they emerged with no injuries, Gunmar’s jaw dropped. “I was expecting to run in and save you,” he admitted.

            Egil shrugged. “Not the first bears we’ve killed. Probably not the last either.”

            “Well, a promise is a promise. I’ll come with you to Fort Dawnguard.” The Reacher stood with help from Agmaer. “Good luck finding Sorine. She’s nearly as paranoid as Isran.”

…

Serana grimaced as she drank the cup of blood. Cold and starting to clot, it was animal blood – horker, judging by the fishy taste. She was getting more tolerance than she expected, so she just choked it down and rinsed out the stoneware cup. Maybe she could feed during one of those errands Urag or Enthir always needed doing.

            “I’m sorry to keep you close to the College, but until we know what your father’s up to, our wards might be the only things protecting you,” Bjarni said after a spoonful of porridge. The Arch-Mage was on his third bowl but judging by the scorched leather apron and old tunic, he’d been smithing this morning. He wasn’t _quite_ a wonder-smith as Serana knew it, but he had a lot of the tricks.

            The senior faculty were mixed in their reactions to her presence. Tolfdir and Onmund were wary but willing to give her a chance, as she knew galdur and seidr magics thought lost to the Nords, while Phinis was professionally curious about her particular brand of Conjuration. Colette shuddered whenever she was around, Sergius made no secret of the fact he wanted her gone from the College, and Mirabelle icily polite. Enthir and Urag were the only ones who took everything in their stride, welcoming her fully into the fold. Drevis simply shrugged and said she wasn’t the strangest thing around here.

            “I know. I’m just getting a little stir-crazy and sick of cold rations,” she admitted wryly.

            “I appreciate that. But until Urag and Quaranir can translate our only copy of Vyrthur’s prophecy, we’re working blind here.” Bjarni’s smile was crooked. “We could bring in Calcelmo, the greatest Dwemer scholar in Tamriel, but he’s an arse who thinks we’re all out to steal his research. So it’s working back from known Falmer inscriptions, matching them against a broken stone pillar from Saarthal that has Old Atmoran runes and Falmer script on it, and making a lot of educated guesses.”

            “Lore among the Volkihar is that Vyrthur used three Elder Scrolls to write the prophecy,” Serana said quietly. “The Scroll of Sun that is with me, the Scroll of Blood that I _know_ my mother hid, and the Scroll of Dragons that Felldir the Old used to banish Alduin World-Eater.”

            Bjarni’s heavy eyebrows shot up. “That might be a useful lead. I seem to remember the College having an expert on Elder Scrolls.”

            Mirabelle, hitherto silent at the other end of the table, snorted. “Septimus was as incomprehensible as the Scrolls themselves. He took himself off to an outpost near the Chill on the Sea of Ghosts.”

            “It’s a start, Mirabelle,” Bjarni told the Master Wizard. “I’ve read _Effects of the Elder Scrolls._ Ideally, we’d need a Moth Priest to read the damn things, but I don’t see the Empire lending us one.”

            “I received correspondence from the chief of the Moth Priests that one of his brethren was coming to Skyrim,” Mirabelle said.

            “And now you tell me this?” Bjarni asked with narrowed eyes.

            “I didn’t think it was relevant at the time.”

            “I know the College’s everyday concerns are your business, but I’d appreciated being told about any and all correspondence,” Bjarni said in a low dangerous rumble. “Let me make the judgement call, Mirabelle, not you.”

            “Fine,” Mirabelle said huffily. “When you find out how much trash crosses my desk, you’ll change your mind.”

            “Not likely,” Bjarni said flatly. He finished up his porridge and rose to his feet. “Serana, let’s go bother Urag and Quaranir.”

            The Orc and the Altmer were a strange duo, poring over bits of broken masonry and ancient parchments in the Arcaneum. Serana sighed inwardly. She wished her mother had found this place before Harkon banished her. Valerica would have been happy here and her knowledge of alchemy welcomed.

            “We might have found the snag,” Bjarni told the two without preamble. “Three Elder Scrolls were used to write the prophecy.”

            “That explains much,” Quaranir said, giving Serana a flat green-gold stare.

            “Septimus is the only one outside the Moth Priests who knows even a bit about the Scrolls,” Urag rumbled. “You’ll have to speak to him. Be careful, he’s crazier than a Khajiit on skooma.”

            “In the meanwhile, I’ll focus on my search for the ancient Chantry of Auri-El,” Quaranir said. “Clues to the bow’s location are likely there.”

            “You know your business.” Bjarni nodded to the bright-jewelled sword hanging from Quaranir’s help. “And I know mine. Report to me two hours before dusk and I’ll start teaching you how to use that thing.”

            “I… have the feeling I’m not meant to use Dawnbreaker,” Quaranir said slowly. “It requires one with great, ah, certitude, someone who believes so strongly in what they’re doing that it’s a bone-deep knowledge. Meridia tolerates me carrying the sword. But it’s not mine to use.”

            “And you told me Idgrod foretold Egil getting involved in this mess,” Bjarni said wryly. “If anyone deserved each other, it’s Meridia and my little brother.”

            Serana would toast to that.

            Quaranir shuddered.

            Serana could sympathise with him on that.

            “So send Serana up to Septimus’ outpost,” Urag growled, drinking some tea. “He’ll damn near have an orgasm on seeing her Elder Scroll and she might get some ideas on where to find the others.”

            “You trust a vampire with such a task?” Quaranir asked.

            “Look, Vyrthur’s prophecy is a danger to us all,” she told him. “You’ve every right to hate vampires. But let’s work together. None of us want the sun blinded.”

            “True,” he conceded. “Be aware I don’t trust you.”

            “I’m used to that,” she said tartly.

            “You could get yourself cured. That would go a long way to easing tensions,” Bjarni said.

            “And Father will just get himself another Daughter of Coldharbour. It’ll take him a few decades, but what vampires have is time.” Serana shook her head. “I know where you’re coming from, Bjarni, and it’s a good place. But you will need the Daughter of Coldharbour to face Harkon the Bloody.”

            “It’s your choice. But instead of walking the path your parents set, you should tell them to stick their plans up their arse and walk your own path,” Bjarni said. “It worked for me.”

            She smiled. The words struck a chord. But… in some ways, she liked being a vampire. Maybe she could chart her own destiny and still keep her gifts. “You’re a good man, Bjarni. Brelyna’s lucky to have you.”

            “I’m luckier to have her,” he said softly.

            “Yes, she tells you so daily,” Urag said dryly.

            “Almost as much as you tell me not to touch the books,” Bjarni said with a grin at the Orc.

            Urag responded with a gesture J’zargo told her was rude. Serana stifled a chuckle. They were very informal at the College.

            “I’ll go to Septimus tonight,” she promised. “Hopefully, we’ll have a few more answers.”


	7. Strange Alliances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Playing around with the location of Sorine Jurard because I can. Trigger warning for death and corpse desecration.

 

“I’m getting a sense of copper pipes and cracked stone. She’s in some kind of Dwemer ruins to the west, maybe a little north,” Wuunferth reported as he stared into the silver scrying bowl. “Judging by the relative distance to Dawnstar, my best guess would be Alftand.”

            “Isran did say Sorine Jurard was a specialist in Dwemer technology,” Egil observed quietly. “Thanks, Wuunferth. You’ve saved me endless searching.”

            “My pleasure.” Wuunferth shook the bowl and dispelled whatever vision he’d conjured. “I haven’t found any references to this Falmer prophecy of yours but I did find a few things on Harkon the Bloody.”

            “Oh?” Egil leaned against the doorway.

            “He ruled Solitude about four hundred years after the Return and was quite possibly as mad as Potema Septim. Certainly as evil and cruel. From what you’ve told me, the vampire Serana may be the unnamed daughter mentioned in the chronicles. The histories state that he gave himself and his family’s souls to darkness in return for immortality and power after sacrificing half the population of what we call Rorikstead. Olaf One-Eye was forced to deal with him but he vanished.”

            “He’s the lord of the Volkihar vampires,” Egil said grimly. “We know they’re up near High Rock somewhere.”

            “I’m not scrying the place out,” Wuunferth said. “I’d be vulnerable to attack from Daedric forces, even Molag Bal himself if Harkon is in good favour with the King of Domination.”

            “I don’t expect you to,” Egil assured him. “Perhaps I acted hastily with this Serana.”

            “Vampires aren’t to be trusted,” Wuunferth pointed out.

            “I know. But a temporary alliance…” Egil sighed. “Do me a favour and never let Bjarni know about this? I’d never hear the end of it.”

            “I won’t tell him,” Wuunferth promised. “Now leave. I have real work to do.”

            Egil bowed slightly and returned to the Great Hall, where his father held court with Jorleif and several petitioners. His mother sat on the low chair next to the Throne of Ysgramor, mouth tight. Even now, she wore her carved bear-totem armour, the Shock-enchanted greatsword from which her honour-name was derived leaning against her knees. Ulfric himself was clad in his chainmail and bearskins. There was a running joke that their marriage bed had more tools than a smithy. They hadn’t shared a bedchamber in years and seemed to prefer it that way.

            Ulfric dispensed with the petitioners with a few quick answers, some affirmative and some negative, and dismissed them curtly. He was a man of action and reaction, not measured thought. Egil supposed that soon the task of judging small matters would be passed on to him.

            “I don’t know why they bother me with such small things,” Ulfric complained to Jorleif when the petitioners, mostly franklins, were gone from the Hall.

            “Because it’s either now or during the Holdmoot,” Jorleif replied. “Any freeman has the right of appeal to the Jarl, Ulfric. It’s an old and sacred law.”

            “But must they go on for ages?”

            “It’s the high point of their lives,” Sigdrifa observed. “Now they can go back home and tell everyone they had words with you.”

            “I think it’s because they want to see what you’re like in peace,” Egil said as he approached the Throne of Ysgramor. “So they know what they can expect when you rule Skyrim as High King.”

            “The boy has a point,” Galmar rumbled. “We all know you’re fell-handed in war, Ulfric. But when it comes to matters of peace, you fare poorly when compared to Jarls like Balgruuf.”

            “Balgruuf’s indolence will cost him in times to come,” Sigdrifa countered. “His fields are full and his churls are fat. It will make them easier to take if he makes poor choices in the future.”

            “Balgruuf may be indolent but he’s no fool. Hrongar is a decent tactician and that Dunmer huscarl of his…” Ulfric shuddered briefly. “He can also call on veterans like Dagmar Barley-Beard and Rorik as Thanes.”

            “Dagmar’s easily sixty and Rorik has injuries from the Great War,” Sigdrifa replied calmly. “I have plans in place should there be need. Talos teaches us to be foresighted.”

            “And Stendarr teaches us mercy,” Egil reminded her. “If you strip Whiterun of its wealth, you’ll have a hostile population on your hands, one with a home advantage and a powerful reason to kill you.”

            “They can stand to lose a little fat if it comes to that,” Sigdrifa said dismissively. “How goes this war against the vampires?”

            “Slower than I like. My next stop is Alftand. The Dwemer expert Isran needs is around there.” Egil smiled slightly. “She’s the one who designed the crossbows the Dawnguard uses.”

            “I love the idea of those armoured trolls,” Galmar said with a grin. “Imagine the Legionnaires’ faces when they see a couple coming their way.”

            “I’m definitely going to see if I can get the plans for the crossbows and the trick to taming the trolls,” Egil agreed. “The Legion’s expecting lightly armoured foes with two-handed weapons and hunting bows, maybe the odd Thane in plate. It takes a week to make a churl proficient with a crossbow as opposed to three months for a simple longbow. Massed fire would break up most Imperial formations.”

            “Kreathling archers are faster but the crossbow has more punch,” Sigdrifa noted. “I’d say a combined force of archers and crossbowmen would ruin anyone’s day considerably.”

            Ulfric’s grin was savage and Egil shuddered inwardly at his father’s bloodlust. The inevitable rebellion was in response to the injustices of the Empire and their Thalmor handlers. But Ulfric, Galmar and Sigdrifa were looking forward to the wars ahead with glee in their hearts. Not for honour, not for glory, but for the joy of the battle.

            “This is why we make a good team,” he told Sigdrifa and Galmar. “And we should never forget it.”

            “So if you’re the brawn and Sigdrifa’s the brains, does that make me the beauty?” Galmar asked dryly.

            Ulfric grinned at him. “If you want to be.”

            “Don’t worry, Ulfric,” Sigdrifa said calmly. “I could never forget all you’ve done for Skyrim.”

            “See that you don’t,” Ulfric said, losing the grin and meeting her gaze. “You’re not the only one to have plans in place.”

            Egil glanced between his parents in confusion.

            “I wouldn’t have married you if you didn’t,” Sigdrifa returned smoothly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have spring raids to plan.”

            She stood and left the Great Hall. Ulfric sighed and shook his head.

            “You should go to Alftand,” the Jarl told his son. “I want these vampires dealt with and I want everyone to know it was Egil Ulfricsson who ended the threat to Skyrim.”

            Egil bowed. “It will be so, Stendarr willing.”

…

Septimus was insane in that ‘touched by Herma-Mora’ way Serana remembered from her father’s court wizard. He babbled and blathered, hidden truths in his words, and dispatched her to a place called Alftand where Dwemer once dwelled. Urag told her it was just outside Dawnstar by a good league or three, so when night came, Serana took Vampire Lord form and flew there.

            Evidence pointed to a recent disastrous expedition. Serana assumed human form and ventured into the Dwemer ruins, enchanted by the still-working machinery. She was less than pleased with the skooma-addled Khajiit who tried to kill her, various automatons designed to protect the homes of long-vanished masters, and the twisted Falmer who dwelled in these ruins. She pocketed anything resembling enchanted jewellery, soul gems or small working Dwemer parts the College could use on the way down into the depths, leaving nothing but corpses in her wake.

            As she came close to her goal, she found the expedition’s leaders fighting over the treasures. Serana sighed and froze their heads before shattering them with a flex of Telekinesis. When she lowered her head to drain the blood spurting from one’s neck, she heard the cock of a crossbow behind her.

            “Drop Umana now, bloodsucker,” warned a light Breton female voice.

            Serana sighed and obeyed. “I’m getting real sick of the Dawnguard sneaking up on me when we’re on the same side.”

            “Ha, yeah right.” The Breton came into view, a very impressive crossbow made from Dwemer copper in her hands. “Why are you here?”

            “Hi, I’m Serana. You must be Sorine, the Dwemer expert and the only body I couldn’t find on the way here,” the vampire replied dryly. “Would you believe me if I said the vampire conspiracy to blind the sun using the Bow of Auri-El was a bad idea for everyone?”

            “The… what?” Sorine kept her aim steady. Definitely a professional.

            “Vampire conspiracy. My father is Harkon the Bloody and he wants to rule the world by blinding the sun,” Serana explained quickly. “My mother and I, being a good deal saner, thought this was a bad idea for any number of reasons. Including the inevitable rising up of the mortals to overthrow us. You’d think he’d have learned that from the fate of Alduin World-Eater.”

            Sorine snorted. “Self-interest? I can believe that. So why are you here?”

            “So, there’s a place called Blackreach that I need to get access to because… well… the Dwemer might have hidden the Scroll of Dragons there,” Serana told her. “We need to secure it and another to make sure Harkon doesn’t get his hands on it.”

            Sorine sighed and lowered her crossbow. “You’ve got my curiosity piqued. Please don’t feed on me.”

            “Then I’m going to have to feed on one of the idiots who called themselves leaders of the expedition,” Serana told her. “Falmer blood is toxic.”

            The Breton sighed again. “Fine. Just make it quick.”

            Serana, out of respect for her tentative ally, was as quick and discreet as she could manage. Sulla drank too much beer judging by the taste of his blood. But it was better than nothing.

            They opened the hidden stairs and descended into the underground wonder that was Blackreach. Fungi that glowed every colour there ever was grew in profusion, strange crystal geodes and crimson nirnroot dotted the landscape, the grey and copper bulk of Dwemer buildings rearing up against the glittering ceiling, and she could smell the presence of many Falmer.

            “Wow,” Sorine breathed.

            “Yeah. So… There’s Falmer.”

            Sorine cocked her crossbow. “There was. Let’s clear out the trash and explore this place.”

            It was a pleasure to work with someone competent. They dealt with the Falmer and collected the crimson nirnroot after discovering an old alchemist had made his home there to study it. Maybe the College could make something of it.

            Eventually they located the vault where the Elder Scroll was kept. It took some fiddling around and a lot of swearing on Serana’s part, but they opened the vault and transcribed the Lexicon for Septimus. The Scroll on Serana’s back hummed in counterpoint to the melody of the Scroll of Dragons. How could mortals read them and remain sane? The combined hum set her teeth on edge.

            They returned to the surface and Sorine inhaled the cold air in relief. “I thought I might die down there,” she said. “I… Thanks for saving me from Sulla and Umana. I don’t know what went wrong but…”

            “Paranoia, Falmer, a skooma-addled Khajiit and a lot of cheap beer in Sulla,” Serana told her.

            “Sadly, you’re probably right.” Sorine sighed. “So… what are you going to do now?”

            “Return to the College of Winterhold. The Arch-Mage has been good about me staying there.” Serana chuckled. “You’d think a big burly Nord would be into Destruction magic, maybe a little Enchanting, right?”

            “Yeah,” Sorine said slowly.

            “He used Charm on me when we met!” Serana chuckled again. “When you return to the Dawnguard, please tell Egil and Durak I’m on the side of… well, maybe not the saints but definitely not the devils.”

            “I can’t believe Isran’s actively recruiting. The man is crazier than Sulla… but very prepared. And if the vampires are really planning an apocalypse, we should be prepared to meet them.” Sorine nodded to Serana with a slight smile. “I’ll see if I can talk some sense. I trust self-interest, if nothing else.”

            Serana returned the smile and watched the Breton walk towards Dawnstar before taking her Vampire Lord form to fly back to Septimus’ outpost. Hopefully his Lexicon would be of some use.


	8. Partnerships

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for animal cruelty.

 

Egil fumed. There was nothing but corpses and shattered Dwemer automatons in Alftand. He made his way back through the silent ruins with Yrsarald at his heels, muttering under his breath. Had vampires taken Sorine Jurard or was she free of the place through her own merits?

            He caught the ferry back to Windhelm and travelled south to the Rift through the volcanic tundra on horseback, his grey gelding traded for a black-and-white piebald mare. They overnighted at Shor’s Stone and continued to Fort Dawnguard the next morning. Egil was only too happy to avoid Riften. Even a Volkihar vampire would wake up there wearing nothing but its breeches and wondering what the hell happened.

            Sorine was already at Fort Dawnguard. She’d been rescued by the vampire Serana at Alftand after the expedition fell prey to Falmer and their leaders’ own paranoia. But she was already improving the crossbows. When the vampires were dealt with, Egil had employment opportunities for Gunmar and Sorine.

            “Self-interest, huh?” Isran observed. “I could tolerate a vampire for that long. We can always kill it when we’re done.”

            “I think you’d be on the wrong side of the College if you did,” Sorine warned. “Arch-Mage Bjarni is apparently a master Illusionist who Charmed a five thousand year old vampire.”

            “He WHAT?” Egil yelped.

            “It appears our vampire friend is at the College of Winterhold as a guest of your brother,” Isran said, narrowing his eyes.

            Egil held up his hands. “I didn’t know, Isran. I’m actually a bit pissed he didn’t think to tell us.”

            “Serana and her mother want nothing of this,” Sorine continued. “Is it true there’s a cure?”

            “Reportedly a mage in Morthal can cure vampirism,” Durak said slowly. “Farion?”

            “Falion. Priest of Tu’whacca who dabbled in arts that made even them feel uncomfortable.” Isran paced around the round main room of Fort Dawnguard. “So we know that they need three Elder Scrolls and the Bow of Auri-El to fulfil this prophecy.”

            “Serana has two,” Sorine noted. “We just need to find the Scroll of Blood.”

            “Are we sure she’s trying to stop this prophecy?” Gunmar rumbled from where he leaned against the wall.

            “Yeah. I… get the feeling she was young, maybe around Egil’s age, when she became a Daughter of Coldharbour,” Sorine said slowly. “It’s a matter of observing cues and tics in someone’s behaviour.”

            “That matches with what she told me,” Egil admitted sourly. “I may have made a mistake in attacking her, Isran.”

            “Perfectly understandable one. My stomach churns at the thought of cooperating with a vampire. But it’s a resource we can’t throw away, not until its father is dead.” The Redguard squared his shoulders with an expression of determination. “If I can tolerate a vampire, I’ll grit my teeth a little more. Sorine, any idea where Irkand Aurelius is? There isn’t a damn thing that man hasn’t killed before.”

            “He’s operating out of Whiterun these days,” Gunmar offered. “Stays with the Companions when he isn’t hunting down enemies of Arkay.”

            “Speaking of Arkay,” Sorine said. “What about Florentius?”

            “He’s insane.”

            “Probably, but he’s also god-touched. If any Divine had an interest in this, it will be Arkay, as vampires violate the natural order of things.” Sorine’s smile was crooked. “If you can tolerate that arrogant shit Irkand, you can handle barmy old Florentius.”

            “Fine.” Isran heaved a heavy sigh. “Egil, Sorine, go find Florentius. Gunmar, Durak, see if you can talk Irkand into lending us a hand.”

            Egil’s eyebrows shot up. “Wouldn’t I be better to approach the Companions?”

            “If it were anyone but Irkand Aurelius, I’d say yes,” Isran replied. “But I’m a little surprised the son of the Stormsword wouldn’t be aware that the Kreathling Jarls and the Aurelii have hated each other since the end of the Great War.”

            “Oh.” Egil remembered now. His mother held so many grudges that he tended to put them to one side. “Is it wise to have an enemy of the Jarls of Falkreath at Fort Dawnguard?”

            “Unless your mother decides to join us, I’ll take the experienced assassin,” Isran replied dryly. “They’d be equally irritating but at least I know Irkand can kill vampires. He’s a Knight of the Circle of Arkay.”

            The Knights of the Circle were almost equal to the Vigilants of Stendarr… and a lot more morally flexible. Arkay only cared for the cycle of life and death, not for how it was balanced.

            “His brother murdered my grand-uncle under parley,” Egil said slowly.

            “Irkand isn’t Rustem. The man has a strict code.” Isran sighed. “Look, he pisses me off too, for more reasons than you can possibly know. But Harkon and his friends are no joke, and I don’t know if we can trust this Serana. At least I know Irkand won’t work with the vampires.”

            “Florentius definitely sounds like the better option,” Egil said wryly.

            “Heh, you’ll change your mind when you meet him.”

…

“I’ve tried every means of scrying from blood to water to entrails and I can’t find my mother.”

            Serana accepted the rag from Drevis Neloren and wiped her hands. The goat she’d used would be butchered and stocked in the College’s larder, frugality she approved of. Nothing went to waste in this diminished Winterhold and when she thought of the bloodstained Great Hall of her father’s castle that always stank of rotten meat, she realised she preferred the clean sharp air of the College.

            “Could she be dead?” Bjarni asked.

            “I’d know. We have a blood bond,” Serana told him. “I’m guessing she’s either raised Wards to equal the Colleges or she’s hiding on another plane. She was on good terms with the Ideal Masters, Namira and Herma-Mora.”

            She didn’t mention that Septimus probably worked for the Daedric Prince of knowledge and fate, wanted blood samples of every known mer type to replicate Dwemer blood to open seals on something, and would probably be discarded by Herma-Mora when his purpose was served. Herma-Mora was more predictable than He realised, but He was no friend of Molag Bal’s, and Serana needed every ally she could get.

            “Did she have a base of operations?” Bjarni asked thoughtfully.

            “Her personal garden and tower at… _Oh_.” Serana looked at the Arch-Mage. “Looks like she’d leave clues in her old tower. It’s at Castle Volkihar.”

            “Where your father lives.”

            “Where my father lives.”

            Bjarni rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. He reminded Serana so much of her father’s warriors back when they were mortal, but Orthjolf never had the glint of intelligence and humour in his eyes that Bjarni did. He reminded her a bit of Sorine; she hoped the Breton got safely to the Dawnguard and convinced them they were all on the same side.

            “Catch,” he said, tossing an ivory amulet at her. It was finely carved with depictions of a fox for Jhunal and a hawk for Kyne, strung on horker leather. “It’ll muffle your movements and cut down on the magicka used in your spells by a bit. Onmund makes them to sell.”

            “And I thought most of the Clever Craft was lost,” she said with some surprise.

            “Most, but not all. And we’re working to restore as much as we can.”

            Serana hung the amulet around her neck. Yes, this combined with her natural stealth would give her a chance to infiltrate her father’s castle. “Thanks. Tell Onmund I appreciate it.”

            “He appreciates you sharing your knowledge of rune-binding with him.” Bjarni smiled a little.

            “I wish I didn’t have to go alone,” she sighed.

            “If I didn’t have to worry about the College, I’d go with you in a heartbeat,” he grinned. “Wait, I wonder… J’ZARGO, GET YOUR FURRY ARSE UP HERE RIGHT NOW!”

            The Khajiit with similar markings to a snowy sabre cat arrived several moments later. “J’zargo did not set fire to the preserved draugr corpse in the infirmary and animate it on purpose just before Colette was about to give a lesson on anatomy.”

            “That was you?” Bjarni sounded more amused than anything else. “Serana needs to find her mother, who might be hiding or left clues in an abandoned wing of Castle Volkihar where her father lives, and he’s trying to blind the sun so vampires can rule. This job requires tact, stealth and a good array of Destruction spells.”

            “And you’re calling on J’zargo?” Drevis said dryly.

            “My mother is an adept alchemist and necromancer who collected a lot of things,” Serana said. “You can take whatever you can carry from there, J’zargo. I just need to find my mother and the Scroll of Blood.”

            “J’zargo would be pleased to assist,” the Khajiit said, ears and whiskers twitching.

            Serana smiled. “I’m glad. Hope you don’t get seasick.”

…

“Irkand.”

            “Isran.” The two Redguards regarded each other like dogs circling before a fight. One was short and stocky, beaky nose indicative of Imperial ancestry, and the other tall and barrel-chested. Both had the musculature of men who fought for a living, though Irkand moved with the same silent grace as a sabre cat and Isran had the solid determination of a mammoth. Gunmar wondered if they realised how alike they were: afire with the certainty of a righteous cause and prepared to bring considerable mastery of their killing arts to the proving of it.

            Not for the first time, Gunmar reflected that they were really both self-righteous arseholes.

            He killed vampires to protect people. Irkand killed vampires because Arkay told him to. Isran killed vampires because he hated them. Sorine killed vampires to prove herself better than them.

            The Dawnguard were probably as fucked up as the Volkihar vampires.

            Gunmar shook his head and turned to his new apprentice. Agmaer was gifted with galdur that let him calm and tame animals, but Gunmar wanted him to learn how to do it the old-fashioned way. One day you could run out of magicka.

            “Am I a bad person for thinking Isran’s kind of an arsehole?” Agmaer asked softly as he plaited a new leash for the troll cub they were going to tame.

            “Nah,” Gunmar said with a grin. “Most of the Dawnguard are arseholes, lad.”

            Agmaer grimaced in agreement. “Yrsarald’s alright but I’m glad Egil’s not gonna be my Jarl.”

            “Egil’s gonna get knocked on his arse by something and it’ll do one of two things,” Gunmar observed. “It’ll either make him realise he doesn’t know everything or he’ll wind up like Isran. Or worse yet, his mother.”

            “The Stormsword’s a hero!”

            “So’s Talos and he’s no less an arsehole,” Gunmar drawled. “Sigdrifa Stormsword would do anything so long as it achieves her goal. Isran, at least, will compromise a little.”

            He patted Agmaer on the back. “Leave the political quarrels to the Jarls. We’re here to kill vampires and when we’re done with that, I’ll take you on as my apprentice. Plenty of work as a beast-tamer. Glory in it too, if you know what you’re doing.”

            Agmaer’s eyes brightened. Isran and his people didn’t appreciate the sheer courage it took for a churl to join something like the Dawnguard. Two months ago, Agmaer was a goatherd. Now, he was shaping up to be a good beast-tamer and leatherworker.

            Gunmar shook his head again and returned to the forge. Heroes didn’t just come from the Jarls and the priests. They came from everywhere.


	9. The Soul Cairn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. The Soul Cairn’s gonna be a bit different because nobody’s Dragonborn in this story.

 

It was heartbreaking to see the ruin of her mother’s moon garden, but Serana quashed the feeling. There were crests missing from the moon-dial. She didn’t even know they could be removed.

            J’zargo found them in short order. The Khajiit lived up to his inflated ego and it turned out that the feline people held the moons in high regard. When placed in proper order, they opened up a secret entrance and they entered.

            The path to Valerica’s tower was even more guarded than the path to the moon garden, taking them through the desecrated Temple of Mara and a wall that Harkon obviously put up after Serana was sealed away. J’zargo pocketed anything small and valuable. Serana understood. Magic was an expensive trade, she was beginning to learn, and no one would ever use these things again.

            “I wasn’t expecting the College to be so accepting,” she said as the wall slid away to reveal her mother’s workroom.

            “There are some who wish you were elsewhere, but the general idea is better you are under our eye than somewhere else,” J’zargo observed. “Is being a vampire so wonderful? This one has considered it. To be powerful and immortal…”

            “I was eighteen when my father made me undergo the rituals to become a Daughter of Coldharbour,” Serana answered with a sigh. “I don’t remember what it’s like to be mortal.”

            “That is not an answer,” J’zargo noted.

            “I don’t know what to say. I have amazing talents as a vampire but… the idea of going to Coldharbour when I inevitably end doesn’t appeal to me.” Serana walked around Valerica’s tower, looking for anything out of place.

            “There are other Daedric Princes,” J’zargo pointed out.

            “Yes. My family’s always had a healthy respect for the Woodland Man, old Herma-Mora, and my mother always got on with Namira and the Ideal Masters due to her work in necromancy…” Serana turned around slowly to take in the entire workroom. “Gods of blood and iron, I knew my mother was a necromancer, but I never expected this!”

            “Talented alchemist as well,” J’zargo observed.

            “Yeah, you’re not wrong there.” She looked at the rings in the centre of the room. “Go look for a journal with spidery Old Atmoran runes. My mother was meticulous in her research.”

            J’zargo soon found the journal, opening it and scanning the yellowed parchment before collecting bone meal, soul gem shards and a silver bowl of void salts. “Azurah’s teats! Your mother… is in the Soul Cairn.”

            He thrust the journal at her and Serana confirmed it for herself. “I didn’t know you could read runes.”

            “This one is Onmund’s mate,” he said simply.

            Ah, Onmund the rune-binder. It made a lot of sense. “Well, if we’re to venture into the Soul Cairn,” she said slowly, “We have one of two choices. I turn you into a vampire or I partially soul trap you. The living don’t fare well in the Cairn.”

            “Vampire,” the Khajiit said quickly. “If J’zargo does not like it, there is a cure.”

            “True.” She pounced on the Khajiit and bit him before he could flinch away.

            Aside from sharper fangs and glowing eyes, J’zargo didn’t look too different. “J’zargo is very thirsty.”

            “Drink.” She handed him one of the blood potions Brelyna managed to make. It was horker blood, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

            “Hmm… Tastes like horker.”

            “It was probably made from horker blood. Very fishy, isn’t it?”

            J’zargo licked his lips. “Delicious.”

            Trust a cat-man to like it.

            Serana mixed the ingredients together and then opened the portal. The rings became steps and together, she and J’zargo entered hell.

…

“The Ideal Masters screwed you over. J’zargo is surprised, truly.”

            Serana stifled a laugh at her mother’s offended expression. Valerica had been protected by the Ideal Masters… Only to be trapped and guarded by the undead dragon Durnehviir. Her own cleverness got her in the end and Serana couldn’t find it in her to feel too sorry for her mother.

            “We’ll free you,” she promised. “But you have to come to the College with us.”

            “I’m not leaving the Soul Cairn until your father’s dead,” Valerica said grimly.

            J’zargo shrugged. “Let your mother be a coward, Serana. We are better off without some decrepit old hag who knows nothing anyway.”

            “You disrespectful walking rug!” Valerica hissed. “I taught everything Serana knows.”

            “That explains why J’zargo has had to pick up the slack.” The cat-man shook his head in disgust. “If the Scroll of Blood wasn’t needed, this one would leave you to rot.”

            “You can make your own choices,” Serana finally said, looking past the barrier to her mother. “And I’m making mine. Let’s go, J’zargo. We have a dragon to defeat.”

            They were several yards away when J’zargo spoke. “We have a Scroll of Dragons, yes, the one that banished Alduin?”

            “…Yes.”

            “Let us see what happens with this undead dragon. Elder Scrolls are… beyond everything, this one is told.”

            “We could destroy ourselves.”

            The Khajiit grinned. “That makes it more fun.”

            Durnehviir found them in short order. “What brings you joorre to the Soul Cairn?” the undead creature demanded.

            Serana took a deep breath and unfurled the Scroll of Dragons. “In the name of Kyne Sister-Hawk, you are banished from this place!”

            The Scroll blazed across her vision and everything went dark.

            When she opened her eyes, she was back in Valerica’s study, her mother and J’zargo next to her. “You could have killed yourself with that stunt!” Valerica hissed.

            “That’s what makes it fun,” she replied with a goofy grin. She was alive and could see.

            J’zargo snickered. “It worked and that is all that matters.”

            “It got us all thrown out of the Soul Cairn. Do you know how long it’s going to take me to get some good will from the Ideal Masters? Years. Maybe centuries.” Valerica glanced around. “I will leave this place, find somewhere to hide. Confronting your father…”

            “I’m sick of cowering and hiding,” Serana said flatly as J’zargo helped her to her feet.

            “You could be killed by these Dawnguard ruffians!”

            “And if Father catches me, he’ll bleed me dry to taint the Bow of Auri-El,” Serana told her. “I’d rather die on my feet than on the altar of Molag Bal.”

            Valerica sighed. “When I find that safe place, you’re welcome to join me. Your cat friend too.”

            “J’zargo has a place at the College,” the Khajiit replied. “Though explaining this to his mate and the Arch-Mage will be interesting.”

            “Stay safe, Mother,” Serana said before she turned away.

…

“Vampirism or partially soul trapped. Hell of a choice,” Bjarni observed as J’zargo chugged several blood potions.

            “The Soul Cairn isn’t a place for the living,” Serana said defensively. “If J’zargo wants, I’ve got a few filled black soul gems. He can have one to be cured.”

            It was J’zargo’s mate Onmund who sighed. “I’m not happy,” the rune-binder admitted. “But I can’t say I wouldn’t have made the same choice if I was faced with it.”

            Bjarni nodded. “I agree. Look, I’d prefer J’zargo gets himself cured… But I can’t force him. All I can do is ask that he abide by the same rules you do.”

            “J’zargo is grateful. J’zargo will think on it for the next few weeks. If one vampire on our side is a good thing, is not two better?” the Khajiit asked.

            “I’m inclined to think so,” Bjarni said. “But the Dawnguard may feel otherwise. We have all three Scrolls. We need a Moth Priest to read them and there’s one in Haafingar Hold. It’s time to reach out and join forces with Isran.”

            “Your brother’s not in charge?” Serana asked in some surprise. Egil was so authoritative she thought he ran the Dawnguard.

            “He wishes. He has some command experience but nothing on the scale the Dawnguard needs.” Bjarni smirked. “Taking some orders might give him a little humility.”

            “You’re estranged?” Serana asked carefully.

            “Not on my end,” Bjarni replied. “My parents are pissed I’m leading the College and fucking a Dunmer instead of planning to liberate Skyrim from the Empire. Egil picks up a lot of his cues from them, particularly our mother. He’s hard and fair towards everyone, but he doesn’t understand things like context or circumstances.”

            Serana sighed. “My mother was a necromancer of such terror that the Reach-Kings chose to bow to my father rather than face her in battle. But she is also a marvellous gardener and I think she loves me as much as she can.”

            “My mother’s a religious zealot who loves Talos more than anyone or anything,” Bjarni said with a sigh. “Talos _is_ the Hero-God, the heir of Shor, and the lynchpin of the world. If He is destroyed like the Thalmor want to, we’re all fucked. But… I don’t appreciate what’s being done in His name. All it does is drive people away.”

            Serana had learned a little more about the political tensions in modern Skyrim. “Is the Empire so bad?”

            “Once, they were fine, even good. But Skyrim’s being bled dry to keep Titus Mede’s ancient sorry arse on the Ruby Throne.” Bjarni shrugged. “Rebellion is inevitable. I’m more worried about what might go wrong – or be released – if Skyrim’s left without a ruler.”

            He pushed himself from the table. “But that is for tomorrow. Today, we need to reach out to the Moth Priests and the Dawnguard. Things are going to be very interesting.”


	10. Agreements and Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Meeting on the volcanic tundra in southern Eastmarch at high noon wasn’t Egil’s first choice but it was the best that could be made at short notice. Bjarni, Quaranir and a cloth-swathed figure who could only be Serana waited for them at the peak of Ancient’s Ascent, a camp table and folding stools already set up and laden with refreshments. Egil was accompanied by Durak and Irkand, Isran electing to remain behind at Fort Dawnguard with the others in case Serana meant treachery. Vampires could enthral the greatest of men and when it came to women, Bjarni was easily swayed.

            He glanced at Quaranir, who was bare-headed against the sun, and was met with green-gold eyes no different to any Altmer’s. So the rumours of a cure were true. If so, why wasn’t Serana undergoing it?

            “Thanks for coming,” Bjarni said as he sat down at the head of the table. After some glancing and glaring, Durak and Serana took one side, Quaranir and Egil the other, and Irkand was at the foot. The ex-Blade took the seating arrangements with the same unruffled serenity as he took orders to eliminate vampires trying to worm their way into a Jarl’s good graces discreetly.

            “I’d apologise for Isran not attending, but he’s not sorry for it, so there’s no point in polite lying,” Durak said bluntly. Egil winced. None of the Dawnguard were diplomatic.

            “Did Sorine get there safely?” Serana asked. “I’d have come with her but… well.”

            “She did,” Durak replied. “I’m not going to apologise for us attacking you. You’re a vampire. Our duty is to eliminate you. But… we can put that aside for the moment.”

            “So long as Serana is allied to the College, she’s off-limits,” Bjarni said calmly. “She’s had every opportunity to betray us and hasn’t.”

            “You don’t have to like me to agree that my father’s plans are bad for everyone,” Serana added. “My mother never takes more than she needs from mortals and I prefer to prey on bandits.”

            “How very public-spirited of you,” Egil said dryly. “What’s stopping you from changing your mind and feeding on someone like me?”

            “Trust me, Egil, my teeth will never go anywhere near your throat,” Serana retorted tartly. “I have _some_ standards.”

            Irkand snorted in amusement. “You should meet his mother.”

            “Sorry, batshit religious zealots are even less to my taste.” Serana adjusted her hood slightly, only her glowing amber eyes visible above the nose. “We have all three Scrolls and we’ve determined that the Bow of Auri-El is key to this prophecy my father wants to fulfil. To confirm this, we need to find a Moth Priest, and the nearest one is in Haafingar.”

            “I’ll find him,” Irkand said. “I’m probably the only person around here who can go to Haafingar and _not_ piss off the authorities.”

            Bjarni looked between them. “I take it we’re burying the hatchet with the Aurelii?”

            “I’m choosing to put the greater good above the feud,” Egil told him.

            “Or perhaps we can recognise that Dengeir and Arius were two old paranoid bastards who blame each other for everything that’s gone wrong since the fall of the Septim Empire, get the fuck over ourselves, and get on with our lives,” Bjarni said bluntly. “I have enough problems without picking fights with people who have done me no wrong.”

            “It’s a little more complicated than that but you have a point,” Irkand said. “Fighting won’t bring the dead back. My father panicked before I could warn him, your grandfather made his choices for what seemed like good reasons, and Rustem had gone native in Hammerfell and acted on what he believed to be honourable. If blame is to be laid, it’s at your mother’s feet for leaving Callaina behind to be murdered by the Thalmor.”

            “I thought we were here to talk about the vampire menace,” Quaranir said to Durak quietly.

            “Irkand and Egil’s families have bad blood between them,” the Orc replied just as softly. “Bjarni’s probably airing the dirty laundry to get it out of the way. It’s a good Chief’s technique.”

            “Who’s Callaina and why would Mother be responsible for her death?” Egil asked in confusion.

            “This is the hole,” Bjarni murmured cryptically.

            Irkand’s brown eyes were grimly compassionate. “Ulfric wasn’t the Stormsword’s husband. Once, she was married to my brother Rustem. It was a poor match in every sense of the word, but… they managed to conceive a child. Her name was Callaina, because she inherited the Kreathling turquoise eyes. And when your mother went north to Skyrim with Ulfric after the Blades rescued him from the Thalmor, she left that innocent child behind.”

            “You’re certain she was left behind?” Bjarni asked slowly.

            “I found no child’s body at Cloud Ruler when I was free to bury everyone there. I was… occupied and my father acted before I could explain the necessity of the White-Gold Concordat and why he had to go into hiding. What are you saying, Bjarni?”

            “I think she was taken north. She was a mage, wasn’t she?”

            “Yes…”

            “Dengeir hates magic. If Callaina was a mage, he’d have thrown her out. It explains something my father said to my mother and grandfather when I manifested magic: ‘It’s not like we can just dump him at a farm and forget about him’.”

            Egil was still trying to process the fact that his mother had been married before. Irkand’s words rung with truth and in the week or so he’d been working with the man, he knew the assassin was a poor liar. It explained so much, so very much.

            “Wow, and I thought my mother and I had issues,” Serana drawled. “ _She_ stuffed me into a sarcophagus to protect me. _Yours_ just abandoned your half-sister. I think I owe Valerica an apology.”

            Egil glared at her, broken out of his stunned paralysis. “Don’t make light of this, bloodsucker!”

            Irkand sighed. “I don’t pick fights with children. I gave you this truth to make you reflect on the choices your parents made, so you may make your own choices. Ulfric and Sigdrifa aren’t subtle and the Empire has taken notice. Do as I have done and think of your future. Both of you deserve better than the cross.”

            “We will be having words with our parents,” Bjarni rumbled ominously. “But the vampire menace comes before everything, even an unknown sister who might be alive. Find this Moth Priest and send him to the College. We can guard him better than anywhere else in Skyrim.”

            “What do we get in return?” Durak growled.

            “A shipment of silver-alloy weapons enchanted with blessings against undead,” Bjarni replied. “I’ve been making them since Serana came to the College.”

            “That’s something,” Durak conceded. “We can leave your pet vampire alone for that. But delivering a Moth Priest…? That’ll cost you extra.”

            “You can have a couple people up at the College when we question the Moth Priest,” Bjarni said. “But believe me when I say the College is the strongest place to hold the Priest and the Scrolls. Quaranir was attacked only because our Wards had been lowered for a public feast.”

            “Actually, I can better the deal,” Quaranir said as he laid a cloth-swathed sword on the table and unwrapped it. “Behold Dawnbreaker!”

            The longsword was the soft gold of a sunrise, its jewelled quillons blazing like the sun at dawn.

            “That for the Moth Priest,” Quaranir said simply as everyone gasped. “I know it’s a Daedric artefact, but Meridia is no friend to the undead.”

            “Most of our people use axes or warhammers,” Durak said slowly.

            Egil reached for Dawnbreaker. “ _I_ use a sword. And I’m sure Stendarr will forgive the temporary use of the blade to fight a greater evil.”

            His hand tightened around the rose-gold hilt and a proud, hard voice said, _“Finally! I thought that elf would hesitate in giving Dawnbreaker to its rightful wielder.”_

_I belong to Stendarr, Lady Meridia. But I’m sure He’ll forgive a temporary alliance._

_“Temporary? You and I are better suited than you realise, Egil. You understand certitude, you understand that darkness must be purged from the world.”_ Meridia sighed. _“But I cannot force you to use Dawnbreaker beyond this crisis.”_

“You two definitely deserve each other,” Bjarni observed with the ghost of a smile.

            “Isran’s going to have a fit.” But Durak was grinning. “Alright, you get the Moth Priest. We’ll send Sorine with him. She’s a specialist in Dwemer technology.”

            “Once she sees some of our plans, she might decide to stay,” Bjarni said.

            Egil balanced Dawnbreaker on his palms before tying the longsword to his belt. “What about the Bow of Auri-El?”

            “That is mine to use,” Quaranir said simply. “Jarl Idgrod said it would take me and you to end this, Egil.”

            “A match made in Aetherius,” Serana observed dryly. “So, are we finished with the dramatic reveals today? I’m not exactly made for the sun, you know.”

            Egil stared at her. How could she make light of everything? “You would do well to have yourself cured of vampirism,” he warned. “This truce only lasts until the death of your father.”

            “That’s _enough_ ,” Irkand said grimly. “Are you going to abandon the feud with us to take up a new one with this woman? You’re truly your mother’s son if so.”

            “I’m reserving judgement until I hear my mother’s reasoning,” Egil told him. “But you’re an assassin for the Empire and your brother is a parley-breaker.”

            “I serve Arkay. And boy… if it wasn’t for me, your precious father wouldn’t be alive and we’d all be bowing to the Thalmor,” Irkand replied flatly. “But don’t let _that_ get in the way of a good self-righteous crusade.”

            “Congratulations,” Serana said to Durak. “You’re the least biggest arsehole in the Dawnguard.”

            “You haven’t met Gunmar,” Durak said dryly. “He and I are only in this to avenge our loved ones and protect the ones who remain.”

            “And I respect that.” Serana sighed and turned away. “Let’s go.”

            Bjarni caught and held his brother’s eyes. “Don’t you dare say or do anything until I’m there,” he said. “I have a _lot_ I want to say to Mother and Father.”

            “That’s between you and them. You’ve chosen to walk a path away from our family. Don’t be surprised if they’re unhappy with you.”

            “After what I learned today, I might be the smart one,” Bjarni said flatly. “Turn that judging eye of yours on our parents, brother mine, and tell me that they deserve respect. I’ll await your answer at Winterhold.”

            Egil watched Bjarni walk away and wondered why his words hurt less than expected.


	11. Infinite Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Glossing over some questlines. Trigger warning for death and violence.

 

While Irkand and Sorine were fetching the Moth Priest in Haafingar, Egil was engaged in mopping up vampiric activity in the Old Holds. He was accompanied by Yrsarald and Agmaer, who’d tamed a half-grown troll cub under Gunmar’s tutelage, and coordinated the local Stormcloak militia or Hold guard as support. One time in Windhelm, he delivered a crossbow to Oengus War-Anvil. The blacksmith was among the finest in Skyrim and would easily be able to replicate the weapon for the Stormcloak forces.

            Egil decided to avoid his mother for the time being. The Stormsword no doubt had some Talos-supported reason for abandoning Callaina. He didn’t want to hear it at the moment. The vampires took precedence.

            It was during a return to Fort Dawnguard when Isran gave him a targeted mission. “There’s a new skooma on the market,” the Redguard said gruffly. “Redwater, they call it. Twice as addictive as ordinary skooma and those who drink it disappear. Except now and then they turn up again… as exsanguinated corpses.”

            “Have you found the source, sir?” Egil asked, standing at not-quite-attention. He found much to respect in Isran.

            “Redwater Den in the Rift. Tear the place apart.”

            Egil didn’t need to be ordered twice.

            They scouted the Rift and found Redwater Den in the aspen forests. Yrsarald’s crossbow took out the doorman and then they descended into the skooma den. They killed the girl at the counter – she was probably a thrall – and found the entrance to the hidden complex below. It was crawling with thralls and Volkihar vampires.

            What followed was perhaps the bloodiest fight of Egil’s life. Even Dawnbreaker’s ability to ignite vampires and make them explode with enough force to destroy other undead barely evened out the battle. But they pressed deeper into the catacombs until they found the heart of its unholy power. A tall, black-haired vampire, fangs extended like a beast’s, dropped the corpse of another vampire. So much for loyalty among their own kind.

            “You must be from the Dawnguard,” the vampire, a Nord, noted as he turned around. “I am Orthjolf of the Volkihar Court.”

            “Egil Ulfricsson,” Egil greeted with equal politeness. There were forms to be followed, even with vampires.

            Orthjolf nodded to the sword in his hands. “Dawnbreaker, eh? If you’re fool enough to attack me, you’d be the third bearer I’ve killed.”

            _“He is a dangerous opponent,”_ Meridia conceded. _“Harkon’s huscarl in life, I believe.”_

And huscarls were the best of the best. This man would have had thousands of years to perfect the arts of killing.

            Egil smiled a little. “I’m sure you’re very impressed with yourself.”

            “And you’re young and think yourself immortal,” Orthjolf said dryly. “I _could_ make you immortal. A lion in a world of sheep. If you wanted, of course.”

            “I’ll have to politely decline,” Egil replied calmly. “If you wish to be mortal again, there’s a cure, I’m told. What use is physical immortality if you’re denied the glory of Sovngarde?”

            “Sovngarde is overrated. I have all its glories in Harkon’s court and none of the inconvenience of dying.”

            Egil’s smile was grim. “That, I fear, changes today.”

            Orthjolf inclined his head and drew a fine steel sword. “You’re brave and polite, a man of noble blood. I’ll send you to Sovngarde instead of feasting on your corpse.”

            He moved in the classic Jeek’s Charge at Jorrvaskr, only to be met by Ysgramor’s Chastisement of the Sea-Ghosts. The Nine Blocks and Blows of Ysgramor had eighty-one combinations in the traditional style… and it was clear Orthjolf knew them all. Sadly for him, they’d come up with a few more in the past five thousand years.

            Egil’s grandfather’s Bear-Swipe tore away the leather on Orthjolf’s side, bearing pale flesh that bled like any mortal. The vampire looked down in surprise and then back at Egil. It was a mistake, because Dawnbreaker rose and fell in the overhead two-handed blow Ralof called ‘Log-Splitter’, cutting deep between neck and shoulder.

            “Harkon will be victorious,” he said through bloody breaths.

            “No, he won’t.” Egil yanked out Dawnbreaker and watched the vampire die.

            That appeared to be the last of the vampires. They spread pitch and used torches to set the unholy place ablaze. Flush with victory, they emerged from the tomb just in time to see a bat-winged form streaking to the northwest. What had the Volkihar taken from this place?

…

Salonia Caelia delivered the Bloodstone Chalice and news of the deaths of Orthjolf and Stalf at the hands of the Dawnguard. Harkon sighed, accepted both of them, and waved her away to no doubt report the news gloatingly to Vingalmo. The court thought him unawares of their intrigues. Idiots.

            He returned to the chapel and consecrated the chalice, drinking deeply of its ruddy contents. It was only when he looked down into the blood that he saw the face of Molag Bal reflected at him.

            Harkon quickly kneeled. You could never be too servile in the presence of the King of Domination.

            _“The Daughters of Coldharbour have arisen and one is already beyond my grasp,”_ Molag Bal rasped. _“Meridia stirs and Herma-Mora is reaching His tentacles into the web of your daughter’s fate.”_

“So my daughter _was_ awoken and Valerica yet lives.”

            _“Valerica is beyond you. Even_ I _dare not challenge the Dread Father Sithis.”_

“The Woodland Man is reaching for my daughter, you said, my lord?”

            _“I did. She is on the path to becoming His champion. That means she would be beyond both of us if she succeeds.”_

Harkon bowed his head. “How may I prevent this disaster from coming to pass?”

            _“Go to the Ancestral Glade in Falkreath. Serana will be there, as will Meridia’s Dawnbringer and a Priest of Auri-El. They will each carry an Elder Scroll. Go there and kill the latter two. The Scrolls will tell you where to find the Chantry of Auri-El and therefore the Bow.”_ Molag Bal’s chuckle was cruel. _“I’m sure you will have broken Serana to your will by then.”_

“I will have,” he promised.

            _“Good. If you fail me, your torment will be for a thousand thousand years.”_ Molag Bal’s face faded from the blood.

            Harkon set the Bloodstone Chalice on the altar with a shaky hand before rising. He had preparations to make.

…

“What’s that?”

            Serana turned to face Bjarni as she tucked the blood extractor into her robes. “Something Septimus gave me. There’s a locked vault he wants to get into – another Elder Scroll, I suppose – and I needed to extract certain things for the key.”

            “Maybe something else. I know when the Woodland Man’s got someone. But… so long as you don’t screw the College over, what you do with your soul is your business.”

            “Tolerant of you,” she remarked.

            “My brother’s running around with Dawnbreaker, my wife wields Azura’s Star, and I stood in the glare of the Eye of Magnus,” Bjarni replied. “These things will be found and used whether I like it or not. I’d rather they be in the hands of allies instead of enemies.”

            She’d heard the story of how he’d risen to Arch-Mage over a year ago. Evil elves trying to destroy the world, an Aedric artefact wreaking havoc instead of a Daedric one – she was sorry she missed it. “You’re barely twenty and you’ve had enough adventures to fill a lifetime.”

            “We live in interesting times,” he said wryly.

            “That was considered a curse in High Rock,” she observed.

            “I can see why.” He shoved his brown-black hair back with both hands. “How are you coping with everything?”

            “I’m enjoying the freedom,” she admitted. “The Ysmir Collective’s grown since I was here. It might take me a lifetime or two to read the books.”

            “I’m better at learning by doing than reading,” he admitted easily. “But I appreciate the Arcaneum’s resources.”

            “How are _you_ coping?” Serana asked, turning the tables on him. He’d had some unpleasant revelations this past week.

            “I’m pretty disgusted with my parents and grandfather. Nothing new _there_ , of course.” Bjarni shook his head. “They could have fostered her with the Ravencrones, given her to the Temples… Half a dozen things can be done with a problematic child that don’t involve dumping her somewhere to the uncertain mercy of some farmer.”

            “Have you scried for her?” Serana asked gently.

            “No. I don’t have the time, not with vampires flying around,” Bjarni said with a sigh. “Afterwards, maybe. I’d like to know she’s alive and well, even if we never meet.”

            “I hope so,” Serana said sincerely. “So… I’ll be up at the outpost for about a day or so. I don’t see this vault taking any longer than that.”

            “Be careful,” Bjarni said quietly. “The Woodland Man would suck the knowledge out of your soul and leave you a husk.”

            “Better than Coldharbour,” she said grimly. “Old gods with you, Bjarni.”

            “And you, Serana.”

            It was a short flight to the outpost and Septimus was overjoyed to see her. The mage injected himself with the mingled blood and opened the vault, only for it to extend into a tunnel. Serana followed, curious to see the heart of a god or whatever, only to see him be lifted into the sky and crumble into dust. So he had served his purpose.

            She approached the pedestal and picked up the book with its patchwork cover. Skin of man, mer and beastman. “What are you?” she breathed.

            _“It is the Ogmha Infinium,”_ Herma-Mora’s familiar voice, deep and rich, observed around her. _“As written by My faithful servant Xarxes.”_

“So is that my fate, Woodland Man? To be sucked dry and discarded like trash when I’ve fulfilled my purpose?”

            _“As you said, Serana, it is better than Coldharbour. Mind you, keep on learning new things and I will have no reason to discard you. I’m not as cruel and petty as people think. Septimus wanted to understand the Elder Scrolls. I gave him that before he died.”_

The Woodland Man was one of the Testing Gods, a hard deity who demanded much of His followers. “Would I be allowed to share what I learn with the College? They’re good people there.”

            _“What you do with the knowledge is up to you. Become a healer or a mighty necromancer, a sage counsellor or a brutal tyrant. All that matters is that the knowledge is used and fate is set in motion.”_

Most Daedric Princes demanded obedience and utter capitulation. Serana shuddered, set unpleasant memories aside, and opened the book.

            The script wheeled and twisted in unknowable patterns before resolving into three choices: might, magic and shadow. Without hesitation, Serana chose magic and all the subtleties of the various seidr and galdur flooded into her mind. The book vanished but she was so much the richer for it.

            _“You’ve already paid the fee by giving Me knowledge of how a Daughter of Coldharbour is made,”_ Herma-Mora mused. _“You have a long and interesting history ahead, My Champion. When this matter of Molag Bal’s little pet tyrant is settled, come to Solstheim. I have Black Books there that will serve you well.”_

His presence vanished and Serana took a deep breath. Where was Solstheim?

            The answer was immediately provided and she realised that as Herma-Mora’s champion, any question she asked would be answered, if the knowledge was in Apocrypha.

            She smiled thinly. Her father was going to be unpleasantly surprised.


	12. Ritual of the Ancestral Moth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Cutting out Dexion in the most ruthless way (poor Moth Priest…)

 

Sorine returned with a grim expression.

            “The vampires anticipated our plans. They murdered Dexion and his escort,” Sorine reported after a long drink of water. “Irkand received a message from Dragon Bridge about a murder in Whiterun and had to stay behind. He sends his apologies.”

            “Frustrating but we can live without him.” Isran slanted a glance at Egil. “Some of us might even be happier to see him gone.”

            “I’ll drink to that,” Egil agreed. The assassin was loyal to the Empire despite all they’d done. “So what now?”

            “We talk to the College. If anyone will have information on Elder Scrolls, it’ll be them.” Sorine smiled a little. “I hear they’re doing some serious research into Dwemer mechanics. If so, I might be able to upgrade our crossbows.”

            “Egil, go with her,” Isran ordered. “ _Don’t_ antagonise the vampire.”

            It turned out there were _two_ vampires he wasn’t to antagonise. J’zargo had apparently been turned at some point and was quite enjoying the experience. Egil also discovered how the College was keeping their vampire colleagues alive – potions made from horker blood. Occasionally there was feeding on bandits and rogue necromancers, criminals outside the law.

            It wasn’t _right_ , of course. But it was a good deal less wrong than Harkon and his court.

            “Son of a bitch,” Bjarni said laconically when Egil and Sorine relayed the news. “Well, Serana might be able to get around it. She’s read the Ogmha Infinium.”

            “The _what_?” Egil asked.

            “Hermaeus-Mora’s little book of secret knowledge,” Sorine replied. “The only tome more important than the Black Books, and no one’s seen them in centuries.”

            “So instead of Molag Bal, she’s given her soul to Herma-Mora?” Egil asked, absolutely appalled.

            “I get the impression we Nords once… maybe not _worshipped_ Him, but recognised His power,” Bjarni said. “He’s the Woodland Man in all the old stories Ralof used to tell us.”

            “He’s a _Daedric Prince_.”

            “And you wield Dawnbreaker. Die while acting as Meridia’s champion and you go to the Coloured Rooms instead of Sovngarde.” Bjarni arched his thick eyebrows. “Pull your head from your arse, Egil, because you’re acting exactly like Mother.”

            He flushed. Sigdrifa had many virtues, but her biggest flaw was hypocrisy. “Your point is taken. But a temporary alliance is different to selling one’s soul.”

            “Maybe, maybe not.” Bjarni jerked his chin at the door. “Serana’s in the library.”

            The vampire was in the Arcaneum, going over something with Urag and Quaranir. “-I wish more Falmer literature survived,” she was saying.

            “I wish Calcelmo was a little more forthcoming with his lexicon of Falmer language,” Urag growled. “But when you’ve got folk like Enthir in the College, I don’t blame his paranoia.”

            “I heard that!” yelled a rough voice from the other side of the library.

            “You were meant to!” Urag shot back.

            Bjarni snorted amusedly. “We have some Dawnguard here.”

            “Sans Moth Priest,” Sorine reported with a sigh. “Harkon got wind and killed the man.”

            “On the upside, he’s down a huscarl,” Egil said with a grim smile. “Orthjolf should have kept up with modern techniques in swordery.”

            “ _You_ took down Orthjolf? Maybe you’re not such a useless-“ Serana bit off her sentence when Bjarni cleared his throat pointedly. “So, no Priest, but we need to read the Elder Scrolls without losing our senses.”

            She closed her eyes and assumed a listening expression.

            “She’s consulting Hermaeus-Mora… Or more appropriately, His library of Apocrypha,” Quaranir explained with a distasteful expression. “I cannot say I’m _pleased_ about it, but I can’t deny the necessity or the practicality at the moment.”

            “I know how you feel,” Egil agreed sourly.

            “I have a way,” Serana said as she opened her eyes. “Sorine, did you find anything on the Moth Priest’s body?”

            “Yeah, a draw knife.” Sorine produced a strange implement.

            “Perfect. Me, Quaranir and Egil need to travel to the Ancestor Glade in southern Falkreath. The Moth Priests have a ritual that allows us to read Elder Scrolls without losing our wits.” Serana smiled wryly. “My Scroll is Blood, Quaranir’s is Sun and Egil’s is Dragon.”

            “Dragon?” Egil asked, blinking.

            “Yeah. Don’t ask me how I know that. I don’t _think_ you’re Dragonborn – though you’re definitely arrogant enough – but you have some connection to the Scroll.”

            Egil reminded himself that getting into a fight with Serana would be counterproductive at this point.

            “Alright.” Bjarni turned from the desk to stroke his scruffy chin. “I’ll send J’zargo and Onmund to back you up. Harkon probably knows nothing… but maybe his people interrogated the Moth Priest before he died.”

            “I’ll go too,” Sorine said. “I know a bit about explosives.”

            “When this is over, you have _got_ to come and stay here,” Bjarni said with a grin. “We make lots of explosions.”

            “We’ll see,” Sorine promised. “So, we leave at dawn tomorrow?”

            “That would be best. You’ve got a long journey ahead of you.”

…

It was a good thing Sorine, J’zargo and Onmund came with them, Serana mused wryly as they climbed the trail to the Ancestor Glade several days later, because the rest knew nothing on camping in the wilderness. Oh, Bjarni knew enough to make a fire and char rabbit on the tip of a knife, but Quaranir and herself were vastly out of their element. At least they managed to catch the carriage from Whiterun to Falkreath.

            They entered the Ancestral Glade and the Ancestor Moths began to swirl around them. It was late afternoon and amber light fell in shafts across the canticle trees. “By the Nine,” Onmund breathed. “This is beautiful.”

            Egil, predictably, had to ruin the moment. “Take positions,” he ordered them brusquely. “I want to be prepared for any trouble.”

            Sorine rolled her eyes but obeyed. Serana knew how she felt. Did Egil have any sense of beauty in his soul?

            But she went around, attracting the moths, and eventually approached the biggest canticle tree with the draw knife. “Have your Scrolls ready, boys,” she advised just before delicately scraping some of the aromatic bark away. “I’m not sure what happens next.”

            The moths gathered around them in a swirl of humming and the aromatic scent of the bark grew stronger. Serana opened her Scroll in unison with Quaranir and Egil and the vaguely familiar script blazed across her vision.

            Images flitted through her mind – her mother, her father, how things could have been – before settling on the image of a snow-pale mer with cruel golden eyes cursing Auri-El’s name as he bound the Bow in ice. _Vyrthur,_ the Scroll told her. _Auri-El’s Chantry._

Then the vision died and Serana was returned to herself, disoriented.

            The Glade was full of Volkihar Vampires, led by Vingalmo. “Come, Serana,” he ordered arrogantly. “It’s time for you to-“

            Dawnbreaker’s rose-gold tip appeared in his chest as Egil stabbed him from behind. Vingalmo screamed and exploded into searing white light. Someone small shoved into Serana as Onmund tackled J’zargo, getting them out of the way of the blast. The other Volkihar weren’t so lucky, most of them getting severely burned and two dying. Their screaming reminded Serana of nights at her father’s castle.

            “Thanks,” she said to Sorine before rising and raising both dead vampires. J’zargo had Conjured a Frost Atronach and Onmund was launching Icy Spears at various vampires. Egil was swinging Dawnbreaker without care for the vampires on _his_ side. It was just a good thing she and J’zargo were agile.

            When the battle was over, the Ancestral Glade was shattered. Between the fire and the ice, the canticle trees were damaged and all the pretty mountain flowers wilted. Serana turned around slowly at the devastation and screamed.

            “Oh, for the love of Stendarr,” Egil muttered disgustedly. “What’s wrong now?”

            That. Was. It. Serana turned on him and before he could react, she was in front of him, giving him a richly deserved knee to the balls. He made a squeak and fell sideways before drawing himself into a foetal position.

            “J’zargo is not saying that he approves of wanton violence,” the Khajiit said slowly, “But he is saying that an exception can be made in this case.”

            Onmund sighed and picked up Egil by the scruff of the neck. Sorine retrieved Dawnbreaker and slung it across her back. Quaranir coughed suspiciously, his green-gold eyes twinkling. “I know where the Chantry is,” he said quietly. “It’s in the Reach on the border with Haafingar.”

            “Not too far from Father,” Serana observed.

            “No,” Quaranir agreed. “But… there are rituals we must go through to cleanse the place. It will take a good day or so. I’ll know more once we get there.”

            “We have to take Egil, don’t we?”

            “Sadly, yes.”

            Serana sighed. Dammit.

            They left the Ancestral Glade, Onmund dragging Egil like a sack of potatoes. Behind them, the light fell slow and warm, and new growth already appeared. None of them would ever see that place again.


	13. Touching the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Because ‘Touching the Sky’ is basically a slogfest, I won’t be writing it all out. Instead, I will use another POV to compress the action.
> 
> …

 

Knight-Paladin Gelebor stopped counting the days what he suspected were centuries ago. Few beside the Betrayed came to Darkfall Cave and less dared the Passage or the Vale beyond. None had returned from even the first Wayshrine. So he waited and prayed for the one who would open the Wayshrines and end Vyrthur’s misery.

            Then one day, the monotony of the praying and waiting was ended. A striking Atmoran woman with the same amber eyes as Vyrthur arrived, accompanied by an Altmer in white robes, two male Atmorani – one in robes and the other carrying Dawnbreaker – a cat-man from the stories pilgrims told, and a Manmeri woman carrying a Dwemer weapon. “Well, we won’t need our bath today,” the robed male Atmoran said to the cat-man. “Where’d you learn Levitation?”

            “Bjarni, where else?” the cat-man replied.

            They spoke in a form of the Southron Nedic tongue, one with many colloquialisms, but Gelebor could understand them well enough.

            “The Ysmir Collective spoke of some great pilgrimage many Falmer would complete,” the Atmoran woman said to the Manmeri.

            “Touching the Sky. It was reportedly an arduous journey with reward for the mer who completed it,” the Altmer said softly. “It is said that on death, the successful pilgrim would rejoin the Aedra.”

            “You’re the Psijic and the resident priest of Auri-El,” the Atmoran woman said. “What will happen?”

            “I don’t know. No one’s done this in centuries.”

            Gelebor spoke softly and the hidden crystals in the shrine lit up to reveal his presence.

            The Atmoran man in chainmail half-drew Dawnbreaker. Gelebor hadn’t seen eyes like his in centuries. Some of the southern Falmer had them. Perhaps, out of necessity, they’d interbred with Atmorani.

            “Do you want another kick to the balls?” the cat-man asked sardonically. “Because that is how you get another kick to the balls.”

            The part-Falmer sheathed his weapon angrily. From context, and his somewhat stiff way of walking, Gelebor could only assume he’d been kicked in the testicles for some unknown infraction.

            “By the Woodland Man,” the glowing-eyed Atmoran woman said. “You’re a Falmer. A real live untainted Falmer.”

            “Snow elf if you please,” Gelebor rasped. “Those you call Falmer, I call the Betrayed.”

            “I guess they were, huh,” the Manmeri remarked. “You’re too corporeal to be a ghost. Are you an avatar of Auri-El?”

            “No, only a snow elf preserved by his god to protect the entrance to the Forgotten Vale,” Gelebor sighed. “I suppose you’re here for the Bow of Auri-El.”

            “I’m afraid so,” the Altmer said. “Though it is my hope to cleanse this ancient shrine.”

            Gelebor smiled sadly. “I cannot leave here. But if you dare the Wayshrines and reopen the connections to the Chantry… Auri-El’s light might shine again on this place.”

            “I presume it’s the Rite of the Ewer?” the Altmer asked. “We have a similar ritual on Artaeum.”

            “Yes.” Gelebor reached to the side and produced the moonstone ewer. “After each mantra, fill the Ewer at every Wayshrine. Empty it at the Chantry to open it. But… be wary. The Betrayed swarm the Vale and at the top of the Chantry lies my corrupted brother Arch-Curate Vyrthur.”

            “Oh, him,” the Atmoran woman said sourly. “His little prophecy ruined my life.”

            “Prophecy?” Gelebor asked, eyebrow arching. “My brother was corrupted by the Betrayed.”

            “Lovely. Falmer vampires. As if this can’t get any better,” muttered the Falmer-eyed Dawnbringer.

            “Vampires?” There was a word for Vyrthur?

            “Succinctly, blood-drinking Daedric creatures touched by Molag Bal and usually infected by bite or disease,” the Atmoran woman replied. “Your brother penned a little prophecy Quaranir here calls _To Spit in Auri-El’s Eye_ and my father calls _The Tyranny of the Sun._ My father wants to bring about endless night so vampires can rule the world. Thankfully, there are those of us with some sense trying to stop him.”

            “My brother never comes out at day,” Gelebor admitted in a shocked whisper.

            “Yeah, the sun’s not great for our complexion,” the Atmoran vampire said dryly.

            “Unholy creatures cannot abide the light of the sun,” Gelebor observed. “I, ah, mean no insult.”

            “None taken. I’m sworn to the Woodland Man and I hear my mother took service with Sithis. J’zargo here is still deciding if he wants to live with our gifts or become cured.” The Atmoran vampire smiled. “I’m Serana, the mage Nord is Onmund, the Dawnbringer is Egil, the Khajiit is J’zargo, the Breton is Sorine and the Altmer is Quaranir.”

            Gelebor bowed politely. “Honoured to meet you.”

            Quaranir took the moonstone ewer from his hands. “Send us to the first Wayshrine so that we may begin the pilgrimage.”

            Gelebor gestured and the mirror opened. “Auri-El with you.”

            One by one, the mirrors grew reflective once more. At one point, Onmund returned with J’zargo to tend some ugly wounds from Betrayed weapons. Gelebor gently pushed the cat-man aside to heal them himself. They were doing godly work and it was the least he could do.

            Finally, the mirror to the Chantry opened up and it reflected dawn. They returned, looking exhausted. “I hate to wait until sunset but… I’m tired,” Serana admitted. “Someone’s definitely controlling the Fal… the Betrayed. Can we rest here?”

            Gelebor blinked. “Of course.”

            They set up camp, forming into little groups. Serana and Sorine talked over their fire with coy glances while Quaranir meditated in a familiar pose to the side. Onmund and J’zargo were spouses, judging by the way they curled up together, while the Dawnbringer sat apart from everyone. It appeared he was unpopular. Well, Meridia’s champions were prone to certitude and self-confidence which often came across as arrogance.

            “May I join you?” Gelebor asked. This man, however distant the kinship, had elf blood in him.

            “Why not?” Egil replied.

            Gelebor sat across from him. Aside from his eyes, Egil was built like a pure Atmoran… Nord, as they were called in the modern days. Like Quaranir and Serana, he carried a golden scroll-case across his back. “It has been a while since I had company,” he observed. “I know your mother’s people and mine have not been friends…”

            “The F-snow elves attacked our settlement at Saarthal,” Egil said bluntly. “Killed everyone bar Ysgramor and his two sons. My brother Bjarni tells me they attacked because of a powerful Aedric artefact the College named the Eye of Magnus. It’s as good an explanation as any, I suppose.”

            “I knew something of that,” Gelebor admitted. “And so Ysgramor came back with five hundred ships of Atmorani – Nords – to lay waste to our people and lands. I hear the Nedes in the south say ‘history is written by the victors’. Are the Betrayed the last of my people?”

            “Probably,” Egil replied. “They’re a little smarter here. Mostly, they’re blind sneaks who can barely cast a spell.”

            “Intelligence returns to my people,” Gelebor said. “They will not be as before but will become something different.”

            “Here’s to hoping they learn from the lessons of history,” Egil said. “We Nords have never forgotten or never forgiven Saarthal.”

            “Or the Battle of Red Mountain or the Great War or any number of mer-led conflicts that were in response to Nord aggression,” Quaranir called over.

            Egil’s jaw rippled and he ignored Quaranir’s statement. The mer and Atmorani were warring? “How long has this fighting been going on?”

            “About five thousand years, give or take a century,” Egil said. “We do something to the elves, they retaliate, so on and so forth. Until Stendarr’s Mercy falls upon Tamriel, it will likely go on.”

            Gelebor did not know who Stendarr was. “I did not know the Atmorani venerated Meridia.”

            “It’s an alliance of convenience,” Egil said. “I’m the best swordsman in the group. Quaranir will be wielding Auri-El’s Bow when we get it.”

            The Altmer looked no kind of archer. Maybe he’d pleasantly surprise Gelebor. “The Bow is powerful,” Gelebor warned. “If you shoot it to the sun, holy fire will rain upon your enemies.”

            “And if Vyrthur gets his hands on the blood of a Daughter of Coldharbour, he’ll blind the sun,” Egil said grimly. “He won’t get far. I don’t much like Serana but she’s an effective fighter.”

            “Your praise warms my heart,” Serana called over mockingly from her camp.

            Egil scowled at Serana and said no more. After a period of awkward silence, Gelebor rose to his feet and returned to his post.

            They left at sunset according to the mirrors. The vampires slept… like corpses. Onmund and Sorine seemed used to it but Egil and Quaranir slept apart from everyone else. When they left, Gelebor bowed his head and prayed fervently for Vyrthur’s release.

            It was almost dawn when the final connection to the Chantry opened. Gelebor stepped through it, finding only snow and ash on the balcony. “Where’s my brother’s body?” he asked.

            “Dawnbreaker destroyed it,” Egil said with a tight grin.

            Quaranir was speaking the ancient prayers as the sun rose over the eastern peaks and for the first time in eons, Gelebor spoke them with another person. The dawn-light was every shade of gold and Dawnbreaker’s quillion-jewel blazed in response, but it was the restoration of Auri-El’s Bow that Gelebor only had eyes for.

            When it was done, he picked up the moonstone arrows scattered across the balcony and blessed them. “The bow is powerful enough,” he told Quaranir, “But it’s the arrows that do the damage.”

            The Altmer took bow and arrows. “I am grateful. My spirit feels much lighter since-“

            “Incoming!” J’zargo hissed. “Volkihar vampires!”

            Quaranir’s smile was grim. He nocked arrow to bow, sighted and loosed in one smooth motion. The arrow flew upwards, turning white-gold, and struck the sun. Gelebor jerked his chin in the direction of the next room. “Get under cover!”

            They just made cover before the sun began to weep golden cleansing fire. The Volkihar vampires screamed as they fell, bursting into flame and becoming ash. The entire Vale shook, snow falling from the surrounding peaks, and below them the Betrayed called out in fear.

            It was Egil who expressed everyone’s shock. “Talos titty-fucking Dibella on Akatosh’s throne.”

            The Vale was cleansed and Auri-El’s presence renewed.


	14. Auri-El's Judgement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Penultimate chapter, folks! I hurried this story along a bit because the Thieves’ Guild storyline is nagging me and that can’t start until after this tale. Trigger warning for suicide.

 

It took a week to gather everyone at Winterhold to prepare for the final assault on Castle Volkihar. Isran and Mirabelle circled each other like wary dogs from rival packs, Florentius chatted happily about alchemy with Colette Marance, and Bjarni exchanged smithing techniques with Gunmar. After several hours of discussion, it was agreed that the best of the Dawnguard and the College be distilled into a single strike force led by Bjarni, who had a number of Illusion spells that bolstered unit cohesion in combat. It appeared in addition to his skill at wonder-smithing, he was a competent general, though he claimed Egil was his superior in tactical prowess.

            The brothers worked in unison, creating a simple battle plan based on Serana’s detailed memories of Castle Volkihar, and Isran added his two septims now and then. Quaranir sat to the side and watched them in awe. Despite their squabbles and vastly different worldviews, the brothers came together and from that unity Bjarni built a cohesive force. He could see now why Egil was chosen by Meridia. When unleashed on a target, Egil was a single-minded force of righteous nature. If he’d been born among the mer, he’d be titled Paladin.

            For the College, Bjarni chose J’zargo, Faralda and a young Journeyman fresh from the Synod named Marcurio; for the Dawnguard, Isran chose his Orcish second Durak, a Breton named Celann, and Sorine Jurard. Serana and Quaranir rounded out the numbers to eleven. More would be unwieldy, less would be insufficient.

            “So we’ll strafe the bridge with sunfire to eliminate the gargoyles and any outside guards,” Egil said, meeting everyone’s eyes. “Quaranir, don’t be shy to take point and use the Bow. Faralda assures me she can Ward us all.”

            The Altmer inclined his head. “And after?”

            “We split into three squads. Faralda, Serana, you and I go for Harkon as we’ve got the best chance of hurting him. Bjarni, Durak and Marcurio sweep to the west while Isran, Celann, Sorine and J’zargo take the east. When the wings are cleared, join forces in the main hall and push to the chapel. That’s where Harkon will be, probably calling on Molag Bal.”

            “Lovely,” Faralda said dryly.

            “Meridia tells me there is… etiquette… that will prevent Molag Bal from intervening directly. Be prepared for him to beef up Harkon instead.” Egil glanced between them all. “Any questions?”

            “Who’s buying the drinks?” Bjarni asked with a grin.

            “You are,” Marcurio said. “You’re the one with the still.”

            Egil heaved a sigh. The young man had no sense of humour. “Then let us be done with it. We leave at sunset tomorrow and will rest in the Pale before pressing on. I want to assault Castle Volkihar at dawn or later.”

            A simple, workable plan. What was it Fasendil always said? ‘Battle plans never survive engagement with the enemy’.

            Quaranir kept his doubts to himself. They needed confidence more than ever.

…

Sunfire fell from the sky as Quaranir fired three Sunhallowed Arrows, one after the other, to wipe out the gargoyles and vampires who crowded together on the narrow bridge against the daffodil dawn. He had six remaining. Let this be enough.

            “Hard on the people of Haafingar,” Bjarni remarked. “Poor bastards will have ruined crops and dead animals.”

            “Better that than be a vampire’s thrall,” Egil pointed out.

            “If the churls can’t feed themselves, they can’t feed you,” Bjarni said simply.

            Egil said nothing.

            They pressed into the Great Hall, the stench of rotting meat and clotted blood assaulting the nostrils, and split up. Judging by the explosions and cries behind them, the two teams were encountering resistance, but the trio pushed ahead to the chapel of Molag Bal.

            Harkon’s back was turned to the doorway. He was tall and black-haired, no doubt good-looking for a Nord if Serana’s striking looks were anything to go by, and his leather armour was in deep purple and crimson. “So your mother succeeded into turning you against me,” he sighed. “Is it wise to trust these vampire hunters, daughter? They’ll kill you, you know.”

            “I intend to leave Skyrim once this is over,” Serana said softly. “You and Mother used me as a pawn without regard for my own feelings.”

            “I wanted to serve our people!” Harkon’s cries echoed throughout the chapel. “Hiding in ruins and drinking bloody dregs… What kind of life is that?”

            “The one you chose when you denied Sovngarde for unholy longevity,” Egil grated.

            “To be a dead thrall to a dead god?” Harkon laughed darkly. “What glory in that?”

            He turned around. “Give me the Bow and I will bestow the gift of the Volkihar upon you. Refuse and I will get the Bow anyway, but you will be dead.”

            Quaranir smiled and nocked the bow. “Come and take it, filth of Molag Bal.”

            Harkon transformed into a bat-winged horror and Quaranir unleashed his first arrow. It just missed the flying monster but still exploded, sending debris everywhere. Serana cried out something in a dark, dangerous tongue and green-black tentacles erupted from the ground, grasping at Harkon’s limbs.

            The battle was long and hard, Harkon renewing himself at the endless pool of blood and unleashing gargoyles to wear them down. Quaranir was down to his last Sunhallowed Arrow when he realised what Auri-El wanted. So simple, so very simple.

            He threw the Bow in Harkon’s direction and when the Vampire Lord flew down to grab it, he jumped on the monster’s back and stabbed him with the Sunhallowed Arrow. Then he uttered the last, greatest mantra of the Psijics, calling on the Aedra within to emerge.

            Golden light erupted around him and Quaranir let the radiance take him to Aetherius.

…

“Talos titty-fucking Dibella! RUN!”

            Egil was the first to bolt for the doors as the castle began to crack and crumble around them. Serana and J’zargo assumed Vampire Lord form, grabbing Sorine and an injured Faralda, and flew out ahead of everyone. Bjarni strode calmly through the chaos, using gestures of his hands to fling rocks aside, and the others followed him.

            The bridge dissolved under them and it was a cold swim to the islet where the decrepit jetty and their boat awaited. But everyone dragged themselves onto the grassy sand and gasped from more than the swim.

            The pillar of white-gold radiance expanded until Castle Volkihar was no more. In its wake was scoured stone, white and bleached from the light. Not even the Bow remained.

            “By the Aedra,” Faralda breathed. “He’s… Ascended.”

            “Ascended?” Isran asked, voice soft with awe.

            “He’s left mortality behind and joined the Aedra in the stars.” Faralda pressed a hand to her side and cast a Healing spell. “Or so the stories claim.”

            “Knight-Paladin Gelebor told us that anyone who completed the ritual which opened the Chantry Wayshrines would be free of the flesh at death,” Serana said. “So I guess you’re right.”

            “How are you?” Bjarni asked the vampire, who’d cloaked herself once more. J’zargo was huddled under a boat tarp.

            “I… should mourn. I don’t like what we had to do… but it had to be done.” Serana sighed.

            “Are you truly leaving Skyrim? You’re welcome at the College.”

            “Your brother and the Dawnguard made it clear the truce would be over once my father was dead,” Serana pointed out. “If I can have a day’s grace or so to rest…”

            Isran inhaled explosively. “We’ll make an exception for you, your mother and the Khajiit. Just don’t make me regret it.”

            “I won’t.” Serana looked past the Redguard to Egil. “And you, Dawnbringer?”

            “Dawnbringer?” Egil blinked in surprise.

            “Meridia was one of the old gods we worshipped. You know that big statue of Her outside of Solitude? My grandfather raised that. Her Champion was always called ‘Dawnbringer’.”

            _“She speaks truly,”_ Meridia said silently. _“So much for the constancy of men’s work and hearts. How can My love reach them if they love Me not?”_

“Huh.” Egil sighed. “Stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours. That’s the best I can offer.”

            “Suits me just fine.” Serana turned back to Isran. “And I appreciate you trusting me, Isran.”

            “I don’t. You’ve just earned my tolerance.”

            One by one, they picked themselves up and got themselves on the boats. Sorine smiled at Serana and said, “Stay around the College for a while. I’ve got those schematics to study.”

            Much to Egil’s surprise, the vampire ducked her head, cheeks tinged with rose.

            He sighed. Some people had no taste or good judgement.

            They were out to sea when Isran finally spoke. “So what will your assistance cost, Egil? I know you said we’d owe you.”

            “I’ve already given basic crossbow schematics to Eastmarch’s best blacksmith. The Legion’s going to get a nasty surprise if things go as bad as they’re foretelling. I’d really like to hire Gunmar or Agmaer. Tamed armoured trolls are a hell of an asset.”

            “You can ask them. I make no more promises than that.” Isran sighed and looked over the sea. “I fought in the Great War. The Dominion weakened the Empire by subverting border lords, military suppliers and even a few Generals. Ever occur to you that your father’s little rebellion might only make humanity more vulnerable to the Thalmor?”

            “You were a priest once. If Talos is weakened enough, He could be removed from the world, and that will empower the elves.” That was how his mother had explained the necessity of the inevitable rebellion.

            “Not many know that truth.”

            “My mother was a Shieldmaiden of Talos and is still a consecrated priestess.”

            “You better be ready and you better be sure. Once that line is crossed… the only options are victory or annihilation.”

            “That’s why we need weapons like the Dawnguard can supply. We helped you save the world. It’s time you returned the favour.”

            “As I said, you can ask Gunmar or Agmaer. Sorine’s already leaving for the College once we get to Dawnstar. You have crossbows already. You want better ones, you’ll need to convince her.”

            “One step at a time.” Bjarni watched the arch of Solitude pass by. “One step at a time.”


End file.
